


The Tiger and the Shark

by dragonnan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Allusions to HLV Deleted Scene, Although he IS an Absolute Prat, Apologies to Mycroft as he gets a bit of Non-Sympathetic Treatment here at first, Autism Spectrum Sherlock, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Charles Augustus Magnussen Mentioned, Devastated Sherlock, Everything Hurts, Flashbacks, Gen, However Could Be Quite Triggery, John Watson Needs A Hug, Murder, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, PTSD Sherlock, Past Mary Watson, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sherlock Needs A Hug, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Staying Close to Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Until it isn't, everyone needs a fucking hug, not graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-06-06 16:57:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 83,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15199277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: “Do you find it less frightening; knowing what will happen? I'd rather imagine the opposite were true. You see, my husband was a master at psychological games – planting seeds of intent and letting them grow whichever way his assets chose. The torments they imagined were horrors of their own design. Charles loved that – knowing they only needed a little... pressure. What horrors were you imagining, I wonder, when you blew his brains out?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](https://postimages.org/)   
> 

Flashing lights – purple haze... Not his ideal venue for client interactions, no matter how promising the game presented. John having made himself ill on whatever take away he'd wolfed down on the way to the flat that morning – leaving Rosie in the dubious care of Mrs. Hudson while he retired to his room to sleep it off; the end result being Sherlock was left to his own devices with regards to the current investigation. Hard to resist an 8, however.

 

Twenty minutes. Longer than he liked to wait for anyone, it was only the mild entertainment on the dance floor that had stayed him from an exit upon hitting the ten minute mark.

 

“Well you're a right pretty one.”

 

Comment filed and ignored – focus, instead, on the weaving steps of the fellow fifteen feet forward and knocking about the pub with seemingly no true purpose in mind.

 

A thick-skulled man; oafish, howling, to anyone offering a passing and uninterested glance. Sherlock, however, had rather a more curious focus. Not drunk – though slurring in a way to imply it while dragging his leg enough to leave a thin burn of rubber on the tile. Minimizing threat in one manner while presenting the inebriated brute to obfuscate intent. A character whom the average clientele would avoid and, should they remember him in any fashion, it wouldn't be for his face but for his slovenly discourse. Despite his uneven steps, he'd maintained a true course belying the affected intoxication.

 

A long digit, nail smooth and trimmed, ghosted along the curve of Sherlock's cheekbone. Head jerking away from the intrusion, he never took his eyes from his target while addressing his unwelcome paramour.

 

“I assure you, you will find no entertainment with me. However, if you wish to retain the use of your right index I would suggest you refrain from further physical contact.”

 

The oaf had, by now, made a steady journey past the dance floor on his way to the loo. However, rather than the gents – he brashly shoved into the ladies – expected caterwauling and the uptick of attention from the three bouncers who, rather than split duties and send an individual, converged en masse on the building chaos. Now, then, would be the start of the real action; when the accomplice would make his move. Easy money from the till or risky, yet greater, reward from the underground card game in the back offices?

 

“Ah, now, that wasn't what I was told. In fact... my employer had assured me you would be most... accommodating... Mr. Holmes.” Solid pressure – high and just under his left armpit while the other arm wrapped around his chest – for all appearances, to any distracted onlooker, guttered and needing a solid shoulder to ease him into the nearest cab. “Sorry I'm late, love. But I had to be certain dear John -boy wasn't going to scupper our date. Though I apologize about the Ipecac. Hope your boyfriend isn't too ropey.”

 

“Spiked his curry just to set up this little abduction; how dull. Should I be flattered?”

 

Breath heated against his ear – moist and tainted of expensive cigars and cheap kippers. “Oh, we'll 'ave plenty of time for chattering later, beautiful. For now, how about help a soused gent to the curb, yeah?”

 

Their journey to the door went unremarked. In minutes, the inside distraction would be hoisted out behind them – thus completing the little play-act that had been carried out with vexing success.

 

No shortage of villains who'd have wished him harm – creating this game to snare him for whatever vengeful purpose that struck their fancy. Moriarty was dead and, truth tell, this was nowhere the elaborate scheme he'd have imagined. For all of its effectiveness this had the earmarks of something recently contrived. A new enemy, then; angry enough to act swiftly rather than indulge in the long game. Case in point, the angular creature shoving him towards a waiting black sedan, while steady with his weapon, was loose with his tongue – having muttered several oaths about “that pig ugly old bint”. The rich blend of Liga Privada against the sharp stench of oily fish suggested a wealthy benefactor willing to entice and impress the less than affluent. Why? A skill-set, then, not in keeping with a higher class of criminal. Not difficult to ascertain said skills based on the overt displays of chilly affection. It also suggested a criminal whose services were not likely to end with a fat wallet but, rather, a slab at Barts. Hiring among the upper echelons invited questions when one of their number disappeared. Not so with the average street thug.

 

Though his body was being forced into the rumbling vehicle – aided along by the reappearance of the suddenly sober third member of their tiny gang, Sherlock's mind was already sorting and dismissing face after face from those he'd captured and those he'd aided – numerous enough foes among his clientele to include them as suspects.

 

By the time thick mounting tape had been wrapped around his wrists and a rough hood had been cinched beneath his jaw, he'd discarded twenty-five women from his list either due to age, inclination, or incarceration.

 

With the field condensed to only three remaining candidates, Sherlock tightened his focus on motive.

 

“Take it slow. Last thing we need is some rozzer berk nick us for speeding.” A shift – seat springs giving off a worn squeal. “Now then, how about a nice little nappy?”

 

Sherlock ducked but couldn't stop the hand closing around the back of his neck any more than he could wrest away from the heavy body pinning him into the corner next to the door. A moment later, he felt the pinching burn of a needle push into his arm. Drowsiness hit fast as a comfortable warmth blossomed through his belly – dipping his head down towards his knees. Though he fought the effects – speech an inarticulate slur – the drug could not be staved forever. Now gentle hands tipped him towards a lap – trousers rough against his cheek – whilst thick fingers pushed beneath the back of the hood and curled through his hair. Continuous motion carding from forehead to nape, he hadn't the will to shake free from the liberties taken. Roughly fifteen minutes on, one hand left his scalp to rest warm on his shoulder. Unconsciousness was deepening - bringing a thickening dark that surged up through his toes – a flooding swell that closed over his head like ink...

 

 

◦

 

 

Minimal conversation passed around him – heard but unimportant beyond cataloging. His eyes felt tacked shut and his body heavy – crumpled across the seat; head pillowed on hard thighs.

 

“...onna need to take one more left – up ahead, past that house, there.” A hand slapped, suddenly, on his arm and, though Sherlock didn't flinch, he tensed under the fingers that squeezed his bicep.

 

“Have a good rest, sweetheart?”

 

Fine layers of glaze peeled away to a molten haze. Blinking, no real aid, nor squinting – though at least the stickiness lessened.

 

No further stimulation from his abductors; no loss, that; he tuned back towards more fascinating contemplation – rudely delayed by the interruption of unconsciousness. So who was the spider at the center of this web?

 

“Pig ugly bint” - the oath one of several complaints with a misogynistic flair. His first list of candidates, then; female. Homely? Or merely deemed so due to assertiveness or rejection of sexual advances? Whom, among past and present association, held so strongly a grudge?

 

His suspects... just before the needle had slid into his bicep, he'd narrowed the field of possibilities to a trifecta.

 

He opened his eyes to white.

 

Three figures stood before him – similar only in gender.

 

Nettie Royston. Forty-three, widowed, with no children. A regular at NSY after a series of smash and grabs, she'd turned up on Sherlock's doorstep, two years previous, begging he investigate Scotland Yard, itself. In particular, its resident D.I. for harassment both of a psychological as well as a sexual nature. Determining that her primary goal was purely vindictive in an attempt to distract from her actual crimes, Sherlock had refused – leading to a sudden and startling rage at being rebuffed. Launching herself at the detective, she'd managed to smash one of Mrs. Hudson's prized tea cups against his temple before John had been able to subdue her. She'd threatened any number of imaginative retaliations while being led off by the constable. As it was, she had been on license for the last four weeks and would have had more than enough time to carry through with her scheme.

 

A warm chuckle as his back and he tipped his head to acknowledge the man behind him. Lestrade had his shoulders against the far wall of his mind palace – hands relaxed in the pockets of his trousers. _“Nettie Royston? You really think she's responsible? You know, very well, she moved in with her sister in Inverness. I'm sure she hasn't had a spare thought for anything other than disappointing the little bit of family she has left. Besides, with her temperament, if she wanted revenge, she wouldn't hire hitmen – she'd take care of things herself. No doubt with a tire iron.”_

 

“No doubt”, Sherlock muttered in return – the inspector fading away to smoke.

 

His remaining two possibles were equally as dodgy – a puzzle that brought a different take along with a companion to air the unasked question.

 

“ _What was it your highwayman said he gave me? Ipecac? You realize you can only get that by prescription. That isn't something some random yob is going to pick up at the local chemist.”_ John; sitting beside him in place of his captor while eyeing him in a blend of exasperation and humor. And it honed the thread of disquiet that had troubled him since the pub. The timing of it all – two levels of distraction carefully structured to imply sloppiness. Oh, he was slipping. It was a game with a far more clever master at the helm than he'd first attributed.

 

“ _And you have to admit – that bit about their employer – the “pig ugly bint”? Why go through all of this trouble to be quiet, now, yet carry on so much on the way to the car?”_ Molly – on his other side with her arms crossed and reclined against the window. Leading him by the nose... No need to hide a smile with the hood over his face. Still, his posture was a tell for the observant and he was swiftly becoming aware that the man he was swooning upon was watching with a keen eye.

 

“Ah... you got it now, do ya?”

 

Sherlock grunted; pushing somewhat more upright – the motion allowed and suggesting there was no longer a danger of being seen beyond the car windows.

 

“Not difficult with the pieces laid out so clearly – truly, was this subterfuge of your own crafting or is there a hand up your backside to play you like a puppet? I rather imagine the latter.”

 

Unperturbed by the insinuation of his words, the other man only chuckled – a far less painful response than a cuff to the head – but blind rage was the undoing of many a foe. A controlled enemy was a creature requiring a different sort of tact. No bargaining – no pleading for one's life nor appealing to one's better nature – this one was bought and sold and loyal to his master's coin purse if not loyal out of the moral code adhered to by those hired out and wishing to maintain a reputation amongst their fellow lowlifes.

 

“So whom is the puppet master...” He'd have steepled his fingers were they free – though he could make due by closing his eyes – backing through the past fifteen minutes plus lost time until he paused on the feel of dank breath against the back of his neck – the rouge revealing himself to his slow-witted prey.

 

“Past tense.” Snapped out observation and enough to pique interest from his unwelcome companion.

 

“What was that?”

 

Sherlock smirked. “When you spoke of your employer. A subtle, yet detectible implication in your words. You maintained an element of the past tense. The only time you altered tense was in reference to your alleged 'bint' – a valiant yet ultimately clumsy red herring and certainly not a misdirect a man of your intellect would be capable of, at any rate.” Now he sensed the anger – just there, under the laugh – a hesitation – a tightening of muscles. “I noticed the smell whilst you were affixing this hood over my eyes. Not the layered aromas of your breath, no, but the stench rising from your tread. The odor of manure – faint – beneath the cologne and shoe polish. And then there were your hands. Nails trimmed, clean but calloused – specifically between the ring and pinkie fingers as well as along the distal transverse. Spent a lot of time working with horses, did you? Not to mention the slight limp and distinct tang of liniment that no amount of body spray can quite disguise. But you're no stable master – you've spent almost no time astride as you lack the coordination and balance of a seasoned rider; though your age would suggest you should have attained such a station were your education up to the task. But you haven't been employed for some time though that does beg the question as to why you'd forego job seeking to heed the demands of a master who, as it appears by your blundering hint dropping, is dead?”

 

“Blundering...?”

 

“Had – not has. Was, not is. Past tense. And, yet, you are currently employed – a requirement when the game is chess but clearly you're playing checkers. These moves are not your own – no – this would require more sophistication than you're capable – your MO more in keeping with a back alley buggering than an extended stay with the veneer of interrogation. Ordered to keep hand's off, were you? You seemed to enjoy our little cuddle – given the uneven lap and speed of respiration so not just the clichéd' scare tactic but the clichéd villain. No doubt hoping the threat of sexual violence would break me down prior to arrival – make me malleable. Not to shatter your fantasy but this is boring. The on again off again cockney, however – ah – but that's interesting. Never measured up to the masters who employed you – always wanting to appear more than you were – smarter than you are – better than the Joe Bloggs you can barely stand to see in the mirror. ' _ow does e' know I'm repulsed by my reflection?”_ Affected accent; mocking before he dropped back to his regular baritone, “The uneven shave could be deliberate – likely deliberate lest you stand out too posh at the club but uneven sideburns? That suggests maintenance without the benefit of visual oversight. Features average, aside from the rosacea across the nose and cheeks and a facial tic near your left eyelid. Adjacent to an old scar; did one of your victims fight back? Could have been an injury at the stable but victim seems more likely – three narrow lacerations – someone tried to gouge out your eyes. Your inadequacies are, very literally, written all over your face. Is that why your conquests are forced? Nobody else would have you?”

 

The flare of outrage, deeply inhaled breath and a shifting of the leather seat, was settling again as the other man leaned back with a breathy laugh. “Now that is impressive – no doubt. I mean, I heard about your talents but it's nothin like seeing it first hand.”

 

The car thumped hard, jostling them both and throwing Sherlock against his captor – another rough rocking the other way had him knocking his forehead against the rear passenger's side window.

 

“Oi! Slow it down on these roads, you josser! We ain't in a rush and we sure don't need a blow out!”

 

The absent sounds of traffic had already informed that they'd left London behind even before they'd come across such pitted roads. The scents of tar, oil, and exhaust gave over to the sweeter bloom of fresh dirt and white clover. But, more so than that... distant cries of seabirds and the ripening smell of saltwater.

 

And Sherlock knew where they were heading. More than that, he knew who had set all of this into motion – for all the good that would do him. A final, twisted game from beyond the grave. He really was slow to catch on...

 

“ _Come, now; don't beat yourself up, little brother. After all, it isn't often that one has two mortal enemies, is it. And both with their brains blown out, too, no less! A bountiful bit of irony, that.”_ Mycroft – sounding smug, as usual, brushed invisible dust from his lapel. Sherlock found that, whether flesh and blood or mental construct, Mycroft was equally insufferable. At least with this one he could banish him with a flick of his chin.

 

“So...” he intoned – hitching himself upright against the seat back, “how long have you known Charles Magnussen?”

 

◦

 

 

Hours, since the last encounter with the the cool ring of porcelain in the loo. Stomach cramped from heaving, stumbling through the kitchen for a cuppa and cursing the dodgy grip of his trembling hands that nearly cascaded scalding camomile across his lap. A wander back through the sitting room found it unexpectedly empty. While his flatmate was not above the occasional vanishing he'd been better, in recent months, about announcing his absences. At the very least a text after a few hours out. Well, nothing for it but to initiate contact. Maybe convince his friend to fetch home a few cans of broth – the flat, once again, devoid of comfort food beyond a stale package of digestives. Mobile in hand, as he sank into his chair, John tapped of a quick message before taking a cautious swallow of tea. Still too hot – lips wincing back at the burn.

 

It was the shatter of his cup, on the hearth, that startled him back awake. Christ, Mrs. Hudson would not thank him for demolishing one of her rose cups. Hours? Minutes? Watch check – half an hour. Bleary – belly still cramping but improving a bit.

 

He dug his mobile from the cushion where it had slipped and tapped to wake his screen. No reply. Sighing, John sent a second text – a bit more persistent, perhaps, but dammit he was shattered and not in the mood for moods.

 

Drifting, then, and half of a mind to switch on the telly were the clicker not on the other table and far from his fingertips. Not being in possession of a mind palace, John contended himself, instead, with drowsy blinks and an internal debate about whether he should risk the cricked neck to sleep in the chair or drag himself to the bedroom for a proper sleep. He checked his messages again.

 

That little thrill of concern was edging into actual worry, now. Sherlock may ignore him when hunched over a microscope or sulking in his chair – long fingers propped up beneath his chin. But in the wind – sick friend abed and foregoing any normal alleviation such as leaving behind a note to his whereabouts – that was no longer Sherlock's method. Not since Mary...

 

Switching tactics, John sat up a bit and rang his landlady – texting not really her forte, after all. Her thin voice picked up almost immediately. Probably had her portable sat at her side.

 

“ _Oh, John? How are you feeling? Can I get you anything? Rosie's fine – just got her down for a nap.”_

 

“I'm fine. Look, have you heard from Sherlock?”

 

“ _Sherlock?”_ Distracted sounds, then – distinct clank of the kettle. _“No – not for several hours, at any rate when he ran out of here, slap dash, and caught a cab at the curb.”_

 

John rubbed eyes that felt as though they'd grown three times in size. “No word where he was headed?”

 

“ _Oh, goodness no, when have you lot ever told me anything of where you were going?”_ Rustle of slippers against the floor and another, softer, clink of porcelain. _“Now, don't you fret. I'm certain Sherlock is just fine.”_

 

He knew her reassurance should have set him at ease but the actual result was to sent his heart racing. Since when was Sherlock ever _fine_?

 

◦

 

 

“Never met the man.” Was the only reply he'd been given – just before another needle point pierced Sherlock's arm with an unskilled hand – the sedative more painful than the last injection and likely to bruise. Though not rendering him instantly unconscious, it had the benefit, to his captors, of leaving him uncoordinated and weak as the vehicle slowed – clearly nearing its destination to the large estate last viewed from the rising cockpit of his brother's helicopter. Driving round the back, the rushing thunder of the ocean dulled to ringing silence as they pulled into what must have been an underground car park.

 

The seat shifted – tipping Sherlock towards the failed stableman and the bloom of foulness gusting between his teeth. “Wakey-wakey, darlin' – we're home!” No room to battle nor gilded with the energy for thrashing, Sherlock was left with the ignobility of being carried over the larger man's shoulders and into a lift. The acoustics laid pressure against his eardrums as the doors clamped shut and the tiny room vibrated with a deep rumble. And then they started down.

 

Not given to visible displays of shock, Sherlock had a moment to ponder if Mycroft's people had uncovered the lower level before dismissing the likelihood of its existence almost immediately. Had they done, the property would be an odd choice for an abduction – not to mention the upcoming activities that would require both privacy and security.

 

Twice Sherlock felt himself being shifted on broad shoulders – his height making him an unwieldy burden regardless of the strength of the carrier. Not exactly comfortable for himself, either, his ribs digging rather painfully into the blunt angle of the other man's shoulder. The lift came to a halt after 6 seconds of travel. Assuming the average height of a standard floor multiplied by the speed of the lift itself – slower than average accounting for the smoother ride – he estimated they had descended 50 feet below ground.

 

While the doors slid open with the same gentle rumble as they'd shut – there was now the added electronic signature of a card reader followed by the mild squeal of hinges in need of service. Not a place frequented by its former owner – the fungal smell of damp earth and seeping moisture a vast contrast to the crisp perfection of the manor above.

 

The space was smaller, as well, forcing the two men to walk one behind the other. A hallway – the walls close on either side and the ceiling low enough that Sherlock could hear the echo of his captor's steps just above his head. No doubt he'd cave his skull were he to attempt raising it. At the very least he'd earn a frustrating injury that would do nothing to procure his escape.

 

They went this way for another 30 steps – stopping whilst the other man fumbled at a door and its unfamiliar lock. By the time Sherlock had been dropped back to his feet, unsteady and a bit nauseous, he had fully tired of the subterfuge.

 

His arms were fastened with shackles – breath speeding through his nostrils, only for a moment, as Serbia revisited with blistering presence – buried back beneath the flagstone of his mind as the hood was ripped dramatically from his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted his shoulders at the uncomfortable spread of his arms. At least they hadn't relieved him of his shirt. They'd even left him his belstaff and scarf.

 

The horse man belly laughed at the glare revealed with the removal of the offending hood. “Ah, dove, you do look a right sexy devil with that pout on!” He mocked a blown kiss while the other man, ignoring the exchange, tapped at his phone.

 

Too deep for a signal to penetrate and he didn't imagine their employer would enjoy them texting mid-abduction. A code, possibly... Thought barely formed when hard soles with a slow stride approached from beyond the only visible door in or out of the dank space.

 

Sherlock tipped his head. “So your employer _is_ a woman.”

 

“She is, indeed.” Voice speaking beyond the closed door – so not sound proofed. But, then, why would it need to be? A moment's pause – dramatics? No, her shoulder led – hands occupied with a large tablet. She had yet to look up as she crossed the room. Sherlock indulged in evaluation.

 

Auburn hair – long, could fall to mid-back though kept coiled in a loose bun at the nape. Elegant and professional yet easy to loosen at a moment's notice. Eyes and lips made up but not ostentatious. Nail glaze clear, garment fitted; fabric a silk blend – no give to the fibers and designed to show off her curves with every movement. Heels... low, base broad – meant to be worn throughout the day. Her indulgence was jewelry – rings in particular as there were two on her right hand and a third on the left. The stones were smooth – though not all of equal value. Two of the rings were gold and inset with aquamarine and larimar, respectively. The third – older – ill-fitted on the right anular – narrow along the lower circlet, worn thin from years of spinning the piece – nervous gesture. Gold alloy showing a pale distortion near the stone – peridot from its distinctive golden green. Were the corrosion from a regularly handled chemical, she'd remove the jewelry and wear gloves. A mild erosion – built up over time. Years. Cleaning solution? No – again, necessitating the removal of jewelry. The stone was affordable – the setting implying a sentiment. The other two rings were gifts of extravagance when money was of no consequence. Moved to the right hand yet still in a place of honor. Widowed. Regular exposure to something with a moderate PH. Not enough to harm the epidermis but enough to erode the alloy over time...

 

“ _...you'll get used to it...”_

 

Sherlock dug a molar into his cheek to stop the tremble.

 

The woman stopped in front of him, cherry lips angling into a smile as she tucked her tablet against her breasts. “Carlotta Alexis Magnussen, Mr. Holmes. You murdered my husband.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where it gets awful. Please heed the warnings cause this is gonna be a rough one. Nothing especially graphic but rape is discussed and very heavily referenced. 
> 
> Also, at some point, Sherlock is really going to need a hug.
> 
>  
> 
> [](https://postimages.org/)  
>   
> 

Sherlock was still gone come morning. Not something discovered upon awakening – John hadn't been back to bed all night. Texts growing in frequency and fear as the hours passed without reply, he'd finally given up around 3am and rang up Mycroft. Not that the overstuffed prat had been available to take his call, as if that self-important git ever did anything as mundane as sleep, anyhow – John had left a stilted message that was very to the point.

 

_**It's Sherlock. Get here. NOW** _

 

Knowing enough about the elder Holmes to anticipate response, John had been dressed and waiting, outside his flat, a full three minutes before a long black car had pulled up to the curb.

 

Mycroft, himself, had been waiting inside to collect him – face ashen and dropping the second shoe of dread before they'd even pulled back into traffic.

 

“What...” A moment's confusion – sorting the foreign expression before understanding flooded his chest with something volcanic. “You knew?? You fucking knew!!”

 

“Of course I knew!” Mycroft hadn't lost the pallor but two spots of red flushed across his cheeks – adding color he didn't typically sport on his best day. “My brother has been stalked by serial killers, psychopaths, and our own sister, who happens to be both. You think I wouldn't be keeping tabs on his movements?”

 

John gripped the leather seat beneath him. “And, yet, you let him vanish without bothering to step in? Too busy with governmental affairs to be bothered by your flesh and blood?”

 

Not speaking, Mycroft turned towards the window – arms crossed and one long finger tapping against his elbow. There were no shoes left to drop but John still felt the thud of something heavy in his chest.

 

“... you let it happen...”

 

Silence.

 

A sigh.

 

“You have to understand...”

 

◦

 

 

“I want you to realize that, unlike my husband, I'm an open book. I'll answer, honestly, anything you ask. I'll also tell you anything you may need to know. For instance, two things of, likely, greatest importance to you. The first is that we aren't going to kill you. I'm angry, of course – and there had been a few months where I'd plotted and discarded exactly fifteen different scenarios for ending your life. I also contemplated those I could kill in your stead – people of whom you have a strong attachment. A car bomb for your brother – yes, cliché and unlikely to succeed, I realize. Something more mysterious and clever for Mr. Watson – kidnapped and enough bread crumbs left, to lead you to him, only to blow his head off just as you finally found him.”

 

Sherlock cocked his head. “You consider that clever?”

 

Carlotta chuckled. “Perhaps not. Clever games were more Charles' thing. I feel it's important to play to our strengths, don't you?” She ducked beneath the chain holding his right arm away from his body.

 

“ _You broke in here for a reason.”_

 

“You don't intend my death, yet you hold me captive. You intend to have me tortured.”

 

She ducked beneath his left arm – stopping before him. “Yes.”

 

“ _Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?”_

 

“Not by you, however, but carried out by your large companion – wait, no – not companion... your brother...”

 

She smiled. “How did you...?”

 

“Your hair is ginger; his is brown – not uncommon as the variations among siblings could be vast but enough to muddle relationship cues. Ah, but the eyes... brown and blue, even hazel could all be seen in a single family and a matched set of irises does not necessitate blood but amber... rare. Rare enough that meeting one person with such striking eyes would be unusual but two in the same day is profoundly unlikely. Certainly among a group bound together by something as tenuous as a kidnapping plot. Finding a partner to share in such a secretive crime – someone you'd trust to carry out your wishes yet who openly speaks his distain for your interference? Who better than a family member?”

 

Carlotta chuckled while shaking her head. “Charles loved my eyes. Said they reminded him of a jungle cat. A tiger.” Those eyes squinted, for just a moment, before the shadow passed from her features. “Well I suppose I'd be a poor host if introductions weren't made.” She flicked her fingers towards her two lackeys – the men moving to stand at either side. “The quiet man on my left is Richard Brunton. Long time family friend. And, of course, you know my brother - Alden Gruner.” The larger man's smile was a slow split of his lips.

 

Sherlock flexed his hands; the chains clinking.

 

“Charles really did misjudge you – and that, too, was a rare thing.” Carlotta stepped close, her breath warming against his jaw, as she began to circle once more; fingers trailing along his body. The other two stood well away – watching. Her hand pressed against his buttocks – gliding across cloth as she continued around – until she was cupping his groin.

 

“This is tedious. Surely you could at least indulge in something less predictable.”

 

She only grinned back – her teeth a white slip in the shadows. On she traveled – a second circuit – touching his back, his hands, his neck, his face... Sherlock noted the dryness of her fingertips along with the scent of sandalwood.

 

Finally she stopped – once more before him.

 

“Thank you, that will do.”

 

Sherlock pinched his lips while she snapped her fingers. “Remove his coat and shirt but leave the trousers... for now,” she smiled.

 

Sherlock made no move as the two men traded places with her – Richard locking his arms around Sherlock's head while Alden folded open a long hunting blade – slipping it through the sleeve of his beloved coat and shredding the arms open – the destroyed outerwear slumping to the concrete – soon followed by the shirt that was given the same treatment. After his head was released, Alden slipped the scarf from his throat – draping it over one of his broad shoulders.

 

Sherlock's breath slipped past his teeth in a measured exhale.

 

“You know – Charles had made plans for you. He told me about them.” Carlotta offered once the men were finished with that minor annoyance.

 

“Told you...?”

 

“Well, not through any manner as traceable as a phone call, surely. We had our own way of keeping in touch. I thought it romantic though Charles thought the term irrelevant. So alike, the two of you, on the surface. Oh... but there is so much more fire in you...”

 

Her fingertips traced down his cheek. “Aristocratic... like him. Handsome is such an inadequate term. You have... a luminous beauty...”

 

Sherlock threw off her caress with a rough jerk. “Beauty is inconsequential – based on chemical impulse and impressions bu-”

 

“...uilt on childhood experience. Yes, my husband used to say the same thing. And, yet, he could still appreciate the master's touch in a work of art. Did you know that he drafted the inspiration for Appledore? He worked side by side with the architect that developed the final design.”

 

Her hands clasped at her waist – shoulders shifting to a straight line. “An hour, I suppose? Or closer to forty-five minutes?”

 

“Beg pardon?”

 

She grinned – a then and gone flash of teeth. “Before your brother arrives. After all, he's had close tabs on you for months, yes? Though you've been doing a fair attempt at avoiding the tail.”

 

And, yet, he hadn't spotted hers. Stupid!

 

“Not a great deal of time. But enough.” She flattened her palms together. “Now, you'll recall that I'd told you, at the start, that I would be honest with you? I have no patience for secrets and no gift for subtleties. I handle business in a transparent manner so as to avoid surprises.” At her back, Richard cracked his knuckles. “I wish we had more time but I'd known that we'd be operating on a crunch. Now, as to your recompense, Richard is going to beat you. He'll primarily focus on the body and has strict instructions to fracture no more than two ribs. We want to avoid a punctured lung if at all possible. He's also been requested to not injure your face. Alden is keen on your good looks, though one can hardly blame his taste.”

 

Whether armed or not, the man would provide a solid thrashing. Strong upper body – balanced carriage – tended to walk on the balls of his feet. Boxer, perhaps – possibly some form of mixed martial arts.

 

Shoulders strained from their extension, Sherlock planted his feet to take a modicum of pain from his muscles. A runnel of sweat traveled down his spine – tickling in its path. He refused to squirm.

 

“Your body has felt such abuse before – so this will be nothing new for you and, by comparison, fairly mundane given the scars on your back. Whipped?”

 

He made no movement in reply but she smiled just the same.

 

“This second part I suspect will be a bit new for you. I'm sure, by now, you realize what will happen but for the sake of thoroughness I'd like to discuss it.”

 

“Allow me to save your breath.” Sherlock rolled his eyes up to hers, breath heavy in his chest. “Your brother intends to rape me.” The shackles dug into his wrists – bruising. He breathed out slow – steady – controlling the waiver.

 

“Yes, he does.” No smile, this time. No... he knew that look. Not the hungry jungle cat – regardless of the golden color. This was the same flat gaze, he'd seen before – pulling a shudder through his limbs that her threats hadn't done. The death gaze of a shark.

 

“He's wanted you since he first read about you... what case was that, darling?”

 

“The Blind Banker.” Alden whispered.

 

“Ah, yes, of course. Imaginative titles, your John has. I do wonder, though... is he _your_ John? He was married, for a bit, as I understand.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes.

 

“Tell me,” her voice was hot against his ear and, that time, he was unable to stop the flinch, “are the rumors true? Are you more than just flatmates? Odd... two men so close... sharing so much yet still nothing more than friends.”

 

 _Nothing_ more? When friendship was so much more...

 

“Or perhaps you really are the virgin... oh!” She giggled – catching Sherlock's eye when she bent towards his face. “So you do have experience! The mystery deepens...”

 

_A moment... far away and full of sand and heat – the high from risking death – a world far away from London – from the Work – from anything that demanded of him anything beyond the slender form cupped in his hands – skin smooth and pale as moonlight – familiar gasps not filtered through the tinny speakers of his mobile but real and passionate – nails dragging down his back – sweat and hot breath and casting aside all pretension – all calculation – all deduction save the touch that would bring those sounds – those feelings – that heat..._

 

_Sherlock pressed his forehead against her shoulder – trembling. “You need to find somewhere safe.” Her fingers cradled the back of his head. “You cannot escape this but you can bear it. You are so much stronger than them, my beautiful one.”_

 

He blinked back into the room. His vision hazed with wet.

 

“Do you find it less frightening; knowing what will happen? I'd rather imagine the opposite were true. You see, my husband was a master at psychological games – planting seeds of intent and letting them grow whichever way his assets chose. The torments they imagined were horrors of their own design. Charles loved that – knowing they only needed a little... pressure. What horrors were you imagining, I wonder, when you blew his brains out?”

 

 

◦

 

 

 

Mycroft's head was still tipped back when they arrived at the office – the second of two blood soaked silk handkerchief's pressed to his streaming nostrils.

 

Opposite him, John silently fumed. He'd exhausted his store of invectives and had spent the remaining twenty minutes alternating between glares towards the elder Holmes and blank staring out the car window.

 

“You should have told him. Fuck, you should have asked him!”

 

Nose still elevated, voice pinched and nasal, Mycroft still managed long-suffering. “She had only just reentered the country. We had a narrow window and there wasn't time for a consultation with all of the concerned parties.”

 

“Concerned parties? Mycroft? Sherlock is the only bloody concerned party!” Ready to launch himself, anew, at the snake in a suit, the only thing holding back the charge of fury was the helicopter waiting their arrival.

 

“How long?”

 

“Forty minutes.” Though the tight urgency in Mycroft's tone was a change of pace from the dismissive dickery usually employed, John couldn't care less for whatever emotion the stupid pillock had adopted. Yanking his jacket together and violently zipping, he'd hardly waited for them to park before throwing open the door – leaving it hanging as he darted across the field.

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

She'd left him less than thirty seconds ago – Richard following on her heels – shaking the blood from his knuckles.

 

His body was slick – greasy blood sliding down his shoulders. True to promise, his face had been left intact – though Richard had been less than precise with his ribs – three fractured; though how badly it was difficult to judge. His breathing, he knew, was constricted by more than pain.

 

Alden rubbed his hands on his trousers – face flushed a deeper red than the rosacea would account for.

 

Sherlock found the urge to speak pressing beneath his tongue – knowing it would stammer he swallowed it – throat jumping in a rough jag.

 

The larger man slid a hand along his shoulder – along his arm – palms shredded from work – moist...

 

Sherlock gasped...

 

And he fell into pristine halls.

 

Gathering his heels beneath him, he ran.

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

John was nearly chewing his fist – knuckles pressed hard against his lips. The thunder of whirling blades cut speech into screams – not that he'd mind screams, just then.

 

Not after Mycroft had...

 

“ _Was it worth it to you, then? To catch them, I mean. To beat them.” His jaws ached from clenching... fists shaking in his lap... exploding, “By handing over your brother to these bloody psychopaths!?”_

 

Too long... he'd been gone too long...

 

Sherlock...

 

He sobbed around his fist.

 

They were going to be too late...

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

Doors, doors... He had to find the right one! Someone – there had to be someone... someone with the answer – someone to help – to show him – someone... someone to _get... him..._ _out...!_

 

Her hands clasped around his – halting the frantic race – dragging him to a frozen tremble.

 

She felt... warm...

 

Slow, face screwed down in pain – so much pain... he turned...

 

She smiled. And his breath stuck fast against the smallest cry...

 

“Hello Sherlock...”

 

Her face was the one he'd remembered best – after everything had been sorted... of secret identities and betrayal and rage... after Rosie but before the aquarium. So much love... Even in the palace of his mind, the only version of her that remained was the truest one. He wouldn't dishonor her with anything less.

 

“Mary...”

 

 

◦

 

 

 

Soft touch. Her hands had always been so soft...

 

“Please... Mary, please help me. _Please_...” Terrified – half choked whisper and God he was freezing from fear – blessing and curse of this mental space, there were no facades to hide behind.

 

Her fingers pulled him towards her – stiff walking steps – until her arms circled around his middle.

 

“You need to stay.”

 

His head shook – sweat drenched curls flying at the motion. “No, I have to run – I have to... I have to get out, I have to escape. Mary, tell me how to get out...”

 

“Shhh....” Tipping back just enough to brush the hair from his eyes, she left her hand rested against his forehead. “Sherlock, now I need you to listen to me and this is important.” He shook his head but her hand moved to his cheek; gentle... gentle. “You need to stay here with me. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, but it's going to hurt. It will hurt like nothing you've felt before. Not when you were tortured and not when you were shot. But, Sherlock, I won't leave you...” Her arms wrapped round him again and he held onto her in a grip that would have crushed any tangible version of her. His eyes shut out the bright white of the hallway – clinging to her as a ragged touch moved across his back. Clutched at his waist. Tore down his trousers.

 

“It's alright... it's alright, now, I've got you... it's alright...” Soft words whispered – fingers stroking his hair and he bit a sob into his cuff at a sudden, violent, agony.

 

“ _I can't-I can't-I can't-please-please-please-stop-please stop it-stop it-please...”_ ragged and shattered – tears drenched down his cheeks as he dropped to the floor – taking Mary with him.

 

“Hey, hey, hey... it's alright. I got you, mate...”

 

Not Mary – her body still pressed against his chest – stroking fingers through his hair. At his side, a solid hand gripped his shoulder, “ _John..._ ” he found himself cradled between them while somewhere, outside, pain shredded though his core.

 

“John...” No stopping the frantic gasps – long fingers curling into a familiar jumper – clutching a death grip around his friend's shoulder with one arm while his other held fast to the man's dead wife.

 

He closed out the sounds of violation – listening only to the soft comforts spoken by two of the people he loved most in the entire world. When the pain became unbearable, he sobbed into their shoulders. When the obscenities rose in volume, he heard only John's gentle assurances – spoken with that crooked smile and slightly awkward manner. When the abuse visited upon his body reached its final desecration, he shut himself utterly in the warmth of his friends – locking away anything outside of his mind. Peripheral sense noting everything that was happening. Sounds and smells and actions – clinical and emotionless and filed – time stamped and sealed – every second logged before being tucked away – out of sight.

 

“Makes Serbia rather mundane, I'd say. Probably won't have any problems from that quarter now, at any rate.” Not now, not _**NOW!**_ Forcing Mycroft back to his offices – knowing without looking that the mental construct of his brother had been sporting an expression of outraged shock.

 

In the vacuum of his absence, another took his place. Warm fur at his back and the echo of a child's voice, _“Come on, Yellowbeard, let's play!”_ a soft whine following and a warm tongue licking his cheek. Surrounded on all sides – everything falling to silence...

 

In this way he cut ties with the rest of the world; arms strained to their limit; finally finding unconsciousness as his tormentor pushing himself away and fixed his trousers, whistling as he walked back out, the door closing behind him.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a complex character to write in this situation. Delving into his thoughts and reactions for this chapter has been a unique challenge and makes me ask, yet again, what possessed me to tackle this subject as my first one out the gate for this series. 
> 
> If I'd forgotten to mention earlier, I'm American, so any deviations from the proper slang/ diction/ expression are inevitable and somewhat unavoidable. Google can only take a non-native so far though I've made the best effort I could! I can only ask forgiveness for inconsistencies while also welcoming any corrections to my blundering. Thank you so much!
> 
>  
> 
> [ ](https://postimages.org/)  
> 

Finding the entrance – the one they hadn't discovered before – had been insultingly easy, this time. They'd left the gates invitingly open, as it were. Though, apparent that the rats had vacated the submerged vessel, Mycroft had insisted upon sending a team in, first, to clear the dungeon of possible threats. Insisted... could have insisted until he'd expired for all the good it had done. Predictably just as stubbornly lacking in self-preservation and ability to follow the most simplistic of commands as his brother (how he'd been a military man was anyone's guess) Doctor Watson had barreled past the tight cluster of agents to take point on the recovery.

 

There was nothing to impede their progress.

 

Down a lift – a single floor in their decent – the doors had opened to a cramped and dark tunnel. Concrete walls and lit only with a strip of illumination inset into the right wall. Their torches brightened the space with cross-cutting beams – not that there was much to be revealed. There was only one door.

 

“Jesus... oh Jesus... Sherlock...” John – breathless as though the oxygen had been punched from his lungs and Mycroft had stamped down on the twist of... something... that horrified whisper had conjured.

 

His brother looked dead.

 

Strung up much as he'd been when captured in Serbia – though his face wasn't hidden by filthy tight curls. Blood, sweat – dirt ground into the soles of his feet. Bruises had been hammered into his torso – the pattern and color indicative of damaged ribs.

 

And he was naked.

 

The implications brought another twist – harder to push down. He found himself swallowing around a void.

 

He hadn't moved from the door.

 

John was cradling Sherlock's face – murmurs of something too soft to make out scattered with sharp orders towards Mycroft's men – demands for something, a blanket, to wrap the now shaking form. After a moment, eyes finding nothing of the sort amongst the detritus in the room, Mycroft supplied his coat.

 

Sherlock wasn't speaking. Though his eyes were now open, the intelligence was... buried. There were tears on his face. The shackles were removed from wrists dark with bruises and bleeding from torn flesh. Lowering his arms brought the only sound he'd make – a shaking, tight-lipped moan as his left shoulder, obviously wrenched out of joint, was lowered to his side. One of the agents – taller, even, than Sherlock, lifted him in his arms over the protests of Doctor Watson.

 

“We don't have time. We need to extract him, now.” Though grim and pale, John nodded at Mycroft's insistence. The only time he'd folded to the demands of the mission.

 

Mycroft was the last to leave the room – pausing, just once, to gaze over the empty space where Sherlock's body had hung.

 

He looked, for many moments, at the smears of blood on the stained floor.

 

And then he followed them out.

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

“Breathing is good – no sounds of blockage.” John tapped across Sherlock's chest, checked pulse and pupil response. No sign of concussion, either. That, too, was good. He clung to the very, very little that was good about any of this. Palpation of his belly gave no indication of internal bleeding but he'd want a scan, just the same.

 

Shoulder was a mess – skin dark with bruising and stretched taut over the dislocated joint. While John wanted to ease the associated pain, there was no telling if Sherlock had also sustained a fracture so he felt it best to immobilize as best as he could and move on to more pressing injuries.

 

The agents Mycroft had employed were useless in medical treatment – no surprise. Singularly focused on Sherlock's rescue, they now sat about the helicopter like so much luggage. Sherlock's reactions had been minimal – a few slow blinks before his pupils had rolled back behind his lids. Once back to a facility with proper equipment, they'd need to test his blood to determine if he'd been given anything. Of course he'd been given something. Probably a lot of something.

 

The medical kit available to him was well stocked but a surgery bay this wasn't. And by well stocked, John could patch up a bee sting, postpone anaphylactic shock, and stitch a few minor lacerations. Still, he dug free one of the ice packs and gave it a shake – mixing the chemicals that started to freeze the pouch in his hand. Laying a thin cloth over the worst of the bruising on Sherlock's chest, he snapped fingers towards one of the agents propping up the sides of the helicopter. A hesitation, just a moment, before the young man angled across the sloping floor to kneel beside John.

 

“What's your name?”

 

“Uh, Dowd. Bastian Dowd.”

 

“Bastian. Hold this, here.” John grasped the man's hand and pushed it firm against the ice pack – keeping the frozen product against the darkening contusion.

 

Sherlock's eyes rolled open again – a bit less foggy then before.

 

“Hey – hey, you with us?” John pressed a folded square of gauze against the deep gash on the right side of Sherlock's abdomen. He noted the five circular bruises, already deep purple, just above Sherlock's hip – knowing there would be a matching set on the other side. His face twisted and he sucked his lips between his teeth – throat gulping as he worked though his reserves of composure until he could prop himself up enough to get through this.

 

“C...co...”

 

“You're cold?” John pointed to another agent – not bothering with a name this time. “You, find me a blanket!”

 

He turned back to Sherlock – whose lips had turned down in what John, could swear, was an aggravated frown.

 

“Co... coat...”

 

John blinked. “You... want your coat?” Of all the... He shook his head – accepting the blanket handed to him and draping it over Sherlock's body; forcing Dowd to sit back out of the way. “I didn't see your coat. Sorry, mate, I was a little distracted by my half-dead friend at the time.”

 

Now it definitely was a frown. “C-cut... it.”

 

Less attention on the stuttered words, John only nodded as he found a thermometer and pressed it into Sherlock's ear. Not as accurate as the sort taken under the tongue but, then, he'd never had any luck with getting Sherlock to keep one in his mouth long enough for a reading anyhow.

 

“He... cut it...” Still struggling with speech. John nodded again; removing the device after a soft beep and frowning at the readout. 35c. Not so good. John, without looking, gestured for another blanket. Without a thorough exam he couldn't be certain what had triggered the drop in body temp. The room had been chilly but not freezing and, given the approximate drive time to reach Appledore, Sherlock wouldn't have been there longer than an hour, at most. Shock was the most likely culprit so, until they could reach hospital, the best that could be done would to be to keep Sherlock warm.

 

A hard wind struck their transportation – rocking the helicopter. Sherlock lashed out a hand – clamping iron fingers around John's sleeve. He didn't make a sound but his breath sucked in rough gasps – eyes flinching tight.

 

“It's alright – it's alright...” Nothing much left but to monitor until they arrived, John slipped into a stereotype of comfort – trying to shove his thoughts far away from what he'd seen – only to find them snapping back into that room...

 

Even in this state, however, Sherlock was less than accepting of the pat words that rolled too easily from his lips.

 

“...sss'not al...right...”

 

Chastised, John covered Sherlock's fingers with his own – feeling their tremor. “No.” He pushed out a breath filled with all of the things burning in his chest... but had nothing more to add but repetition – as his friend never accepted lies; not even ones meant as comfort. “It's not,” his mind supplying the rest of the words – unspoken, _'but it is what it is...'_

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

“ _You don't have to go back.”_

 

_She hadn't dressed. Of course, neither had he so their footing remained equal, in terms of clothing, at least._

 

_The nicked robes were balled at the foot of the bed – their dark color brilliantly masking the blood stains. They sipped rich black tea with milk – though the platter of fruit and cakes was largely untouched. The patterned blanket was shared across their laps – both occupied with their mobiles. Sherlock's feet jutted out past the edge of the fringe – long toes twitching and flexing as he tapped away._

 

_Her comment stilled his fingers – his head turned just enough to catch her neutral expression from the edge of his eye. Her hair was tumbled across her shoulders – face bare of product. She could have been silent, the entire time, the way she continued to scroll and tap – eyes locked on her mobile._

 

“ _You know I must.”_

 

_Barely a twitch – her fingers hesitated only a fraction in their movements. “Do I know that?”_

 

_His mobile lowered to his lap – face turning towards her. “And what would I be to you – were I to stay? Your lover?” He kissed her shoulder. “Your consort?” His fingers slipped a ghost light touch along her arm. “A clever bird in a gilded cage?” She grinned at that._

 

“ _Mmm... I quite like to imagine you bound and kept – awaiting my pleasure.”_

 

_His teeth flashed in return – amused but silent. Her fingers, then, too, abandoned their play across the smooth pads. “Of course, you're right. Gracious – what was I thinking. I'd be bored senseless within a week.”_

 

_His smirk lasted through another kiss. “Bored? Well, that won't do at all...”_

 

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

He hadn't needed surgery. The worst of it was his shoulder – badly dislocated but no signs of fracture. With the aid of a muscle relaxer and a bit of manipulation, it had slid back into place with an audible CLACK – the relief from the roaring pain immediate. John had insisted on the complicated sling now pinning his arm to his side. A smothering closeness though he bore it in silence. Only two ribs fractured after all; incomplete which, apparently, was good news. The treatment was an ice pack and rest so how good that was apparently was broadly defined.

 

He'd refused an internal exam. What was the point? His attackers were known and incarceration was inevitable whether or not additional charges were levied. When pressured – by a fresh faced inspector from the Metropolitan, looking far to young to hold the title, much less work within the SCD – Sherlock had snapped. Even John had been hustled from the room – allowing the man the space to calm. And for most people that would have done it.

 

Sherlock, though, found no solace in silence. The humming pressure of ventilation – the muffle of steps passing back and forth...

 

It was maddening.

 

Akin to locked-in syndrome – forced into the landscape of his own mind – no longer the ordered halls he'd always known. No... now, every last one of them, was a narrow tunnel buried beneath the earth.

 

Emotion was such a pointless thing! To be inflicted by its whims was an insult! Emotion was the root cause of every horror humanity had inflicted upon itself. A world governed by logic and reason... John may call him Spock but there was a vast appeal to such a society.

 

“Rather boring though – don't you think?”

 

Sherlock refused acknowledging the slim figure lounging against the wall opposite; blue jacket flared to accommodate the hands shoved into his pockets.

 

“Come oooon! Admit it – you'd be raging after the first day. Well... maybe the first week. You know, you always were a bit narky but at least you were fun! Now look at you... pathetic...”

 

Sherlock said nothing to the specter – felt nothing as, in his next turn around the room, Moriarty was gone. So, he'd escaped from the dungeon. His mind palace may have been his own construct but it still followed a set of rules. One, being, if a door were left open – whatever existed behind that door had a terrible habit of getting out. Focused on clawing his way back to life after being shot, he'd neglected to latch his nemesis back into his prison. As it was, the well dressed phantom was a far milder demon than the nightmares of the waking world.

 

Footfalls, beyond the door, were of a recognizable gait well before the deeper mutter – made indistinct with lowered volume – proved identity. Lestrade – come to pay his respects, then. Or to gather evidence, more like. Sherlock battled a hot flutter that demanded frantic laughter at the profundity the inspector would gain from a few nail clippings – the most that pilchard with a newly minted tin had managed to collect prior to his forceful expulsion.

 

Well gather away.

 

“Isn't that an irony, then? Having spent so much time on one side of the microscope to suddenly find you've become the smudge on the slide. I wonder what they'll find under magnification?”

 

Sherlock clenched his jaw – rounding on his brother only to find that Mycroft, too, had vanished.

 

The knock that followed jolted a lurch through his middle – though he gave no outward sign of startle. “Come in.” Soft spoken and presenting a far more relaxed state than he'd last exhibited with company – he held close to the wall and faced the door – eyeing the space left open alongside the DI – noting John a bit further back and offering a truly miserable act of nonchalance. The eyes that darted – the fists held tight to his sides – the pacing walk all spoke of a man on the edge of blind fury. A comfort or threat, Sherlock hadn't the time to analyze – though he was aware of the empty swell within when the door began to shut him away.

 

“Don't-!” His hand shook – outstretched towards the polished wood and glass. He blinked at his shaking fingers – trying to recall when he'd lifted his arm. Lestrade, in rare comprehension, left the door open several inches. No surprise when John edged to within a hand's-breadth – meeting the flitting gaze of his friend. Sherlock nodded, once. Without pause, John slipped into the room – only approaching until Sherlock went stiff. Wordless, he sat in one of the chairs instead – never once speaking.

 

Rather, he allowed Lestrade to launch into a droning monologue – detailing the pursuit of his captors – their vanishing from the grid expected and of non-information. Clearly they'd prepared for a departure that would avoid interference from Scotland Yard. The monotone sharing became background. If questions were asked, they were unheeded. Sherlock studied the tremor in his fingers and only, truly, returned to the room when the only remaining occupants were himself and John.

 

His friend sat across from him – bundled hands showing white at the knuckle.

 

“What do you need, Sherlock?” Sincere – soft – attentive. Well wasn't that just like John Watson – a dichotomy from the man who could likewise be furious, hard, and stubborn. And, in many ways, Sherlock needed all of those sides. He wouldn't settle for less.

 

His reply, just as soft, carried a thread of something he was not yet ready to face – though the reflected pain in John's eyes showed his attempts at redaction were unsuccessful.

 

“Take me home...”

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

Measured steps hadn't been enough to disguise his nigh bolt for the shower. Scummy residue clung to his hips, his thighs, and rather more intimate places. Blood not the only tacky film that left him feeling raw. It was unconscionable that he be ruled by that throat closing horror a moment longer. He scrubbed until he brought fresh blood to the surface – though he minded this less. He couldn't be cleansed otherwise.

 

Changed to pajamas – robe belted tight around his middle, he returned to the sitting room to find that Mrs. Hudson had been in the flat – though her physical presence, thank God, had vacated, since. Anything more than a scalding cup of tea would have been more than his current tolerances could manage. Apparent that John had rang ahead – alerting their elderly landlady to, at least, a general update. That she'd have been made aware of his abduction was a given. That she would have been kept in the dark as to what had occurred, also, was a given. Anything beyond the obvious roughing up was, by its nature, agonizing in its privacy. The concept of her ever knowing...

 

“Sherlock? What's happened? You've gone pale.”

 

Ruling the impulse to swallow hard, Sherlock turned towards the kitchen at the tea set out on the table next to the bone saw. That John didn't insist on an answer was indicative of a mentality accustomed to being ignored. That, or he'd determined his friend to be of far too fragile a state for pressuring. In that, however, he likely wasn't far off.

 

Neither wanted the biscuits laid out with the tea, but they both took a cup and withdrew to the fireplace; John plying his friend with a dose of medication and an ice pack for his shoulder. He sat, then, sinking far back as was his custom. Sherlock, however, had barely bent knees when a breath-stealing pain – kept at bay with the hospital's supply of morphine – reawakened in its absence. Too soon for the milder, less addictive dose, to have taken effect he was made brutally aware that sitting, for some time, would be a challenge.

 

Astounding reflexes compromised by his sling, there was nothing to halt the explosion of painted porcelain and hot Earl Grey against the thin rug when the cup and saucer trembled from his grip.

 

“Christ!” His own cup set aside, John was at his side and within seconds of applying a steadying hand when Sherlock stumble stepped backwards – nearly joining the fragments on the floor when his heels clipped the leg of his chair. Neither man sure what to do with the void that had so recently held a familiar companionship, John offered to fetch Sherlock a fresh cup – not waiting for reply before making for the kitchen.

 

Left with the shattered cup and quaking limbs, Sherlock took refuge in the corner of the window. The cup was left to its own devices.

 

John's return, minutes or days later, was met with composure that had been tacked in place with hammer and nails wielded by an inept carpenter. It would be enough, though, to get him through the first night.

 

He sipped his tea and watched the slow progression of cars and taxies below.

 

On the other side of the window, John made a poor play at doing the same – though his darting eyes gave away his true focus.

 

“I'm not an invalid.” His tea was gone. Sherlock held the cup close to his chest – tight to prevent its rattle against the saucer.

 

John breathed out – hard enough to leave a halo of condensation against the cool glass. “Of course not. But there's no disgrace in allowing others to care for you.”

 

No comment back, to that. Two taxis, three personal cars, and a lorry navigated the roadway while they stood – neither man speaking. On the sidewalk, a couple passed beneath their window and entered the cafe. A short while later, they exited once more – both carrying parcels in opposite arms in order to keep the center free for hand holding.

 

“Sherlock...”

 

“I'm going to bed.” Turning from the view, Sherlock left John to his emotions and made for his room – leaving his cup and saucer on the mantle on his way past the fireplace.

 

It wasn't within him to indulge in the stagnant blend of guilt and pity his friend was concocting. It was useless; repulsive sentiment. His injuries were on par for his investigations and nowhere as debilitating as, say, a gunshot wound or the occasional strangling. A week, at most. Long enough for the ache to fade – for his shoulder to regain adequate mobility. John would insist he leave the sling for a full four weeks. Sherlock would remove it in the morning. The compromise would be one week, only while outside the flat. Sherlock would pare it down to three days. John would harangue, for all the good it would do him, but eventually capitulate with vague insistence on some sort of nebulous aftercare.

 

Sherlock would indulge the pointless pandering – gradually returning the relationship to the regular equilibrium they had enjoyed previously. By the time the wretched sling was a far memory for them both, they would have returned to the level of normalcy they were accustomed.

 

Perhaps as early as tomorrow he'd insist upon a visit to Bart's. It would do John some good to get back to their work and Sherlock had been eyeing the latest corpse – a man with albinism as well as acrodysostosis who had, presumptively, been murdered for his gold teeth. However, the fact that the killer had neglected to remove three of the molars suggested ulterior motive.

 

It was this thought he dug into his mind – letting it revolve around the puzzle in a meandering circuit. Not the rough speech spattering against his ear in drops of saliva. Not the blunt, neatly trimmed nails, digging crescents into his hips. Not the gasping breaths when _he_ was finished, though not departed – lips sucking a kiss between quaking shoulder blades.

 

“ _We're even, now, I believe? A life for a life – isn't that the proper response? You took him from me so I took you... from yourself. Maybe now you'll understand the emptiness you've left me. Enjoy your existence, Mr. Holmes. It's unlikely we'll be seeing one another again.”_

 

Sherlock pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes – pressed until red and green flashed against his retinas. The memory stench of her perfume threaded across his senses like poison.

 

Spine pressed flush against his door, legs wide to brace himself, he sucked in a single, tight breath, and sobbed.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> [](https://postimages.org/)  
>   
> 

Sherlock had always been somewhat barmy when it came to regular meals – by turns indulging in a massive plate of chips or, if beleaguered by a case, would forego meals completely save for tea and, occasionally, a biscuit. In the last few weeks, though, he'd gone from asinine but predictable to absolutely morbid. Combination of the trauma which he refused to acknowledge as well as the series of PEP had left him increasingly nauseous. John would insist on food, which Sherlock would take with his medication. An hour later would see him vomiting over the toilet, which left him in agony from his injured ribs as well as weak and shaky. John would inject him with an antiemetic, of course, though it offered only a mild relief. It had reached a critical point, two weeks out, when John had been shaken from his book at the crash of Sherlock's weakening body giving out beneath him when he'd leaned over his microscope at the table. John had threatened to put a line in, while tweezing glass from his friend's arms and hands, to finally get one solid meal into the stubborn arse. While it was a daily argument, the game won and lost with regularity on either side, at least he'd managed to edge Sherlock away from utter starvation.

 

One month after Appledore, Sherlock, health improving with the enforced semi-regularity of meals, had packed his case and left the flat. Had John been there, perhaps he could have convinced him otherwise (though history would argue that presumption but guilt had been a bedfellow for some time, now, and self-flagellation was a punishment he routinely employed). Held up at the clinic, it had been up to Mrs. Hudson to watch over their friend and they'd made no effort to hide the fact that the primary reason was the risk of recidivation. Sherlock's exasperated whinging had in no way impeded their efforts as they were well used to his complaints. His cold rage, though... that had been another thing, altogether.

 

But he'd been getting better...

 

Four hours later, past the time John had arrived back to the flat to find an apologizing Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock had made a slow, hesitant ascent up the 17 stairs to their sitting room. He'd been absolutely ashen, seemingly unaware, and stripped of speech. His violin had been missing.

 

An hour after that, Mycroft had arrived at the flat to personally deliver the instrument, as well as to inform John where Sherlock had been. Sherrinford.

 

“Jesus...” John's hand pressed across his lips – well imagining how that could have gone tits up.

 

“Quite.” Umbrella not so much a support to lean upon as a weapon clutched tight across his thighs – white knuckled around the curved handle. Mycroft hadn't moved from the threshold though John had offered him a cup. Rather than the usual decline of niceties, the elder Holmes had rounded on him. “How could you possibly have allowed him to leave this flat to go there, of all places? You are his friend, aren't you?” Mycroft enunciated “friend” the way some people said “colonoscopy”.

 

“How could I have...? How could _you_ have turned him over to those... creatures in the first place to be beaten and r...r...” Even now his throat stuttered around the word. “And what good did that do you, hm? Remind me, Mycroft, how many of those animals did your men manage to find, so far? Rough number... all three? Two? Just the one then...” Angry with himself for not protecting Sherlock – as if they could ever keep the man contained should he fancy an escape, John's seething outrage at Mycroft grew legs with the arrogant bastard glaring at him from behind his long nose. “...None...” Said bastard finally ground from between locked teeth.

 

“None. That's right. So, worth it – is what you're telling me...” Red across his vision, John was gearing up for another round, likely to involve contusions this time. Mrs. Hudson, of course, would have none of it – pushing into their hissing row with arms stiff and fists at her sides.

 

“Now you listen to me, both of you! If you aren't here to support that precious soul then you can go right ahead and take yourselves out of here. I own this building and have no trouble tossing the pair of you to the street. Either you speak civilly or get out. Do you understand me?”

 

The two of them, both having been on the outs with the irate landlady on several occasions, deflated under the focused study of her furious stare. Staying long enough to see a facsimile of peace restored, Mrs. Hudson returned to the kitchen to finish preparing tea along with some toast and jam she probably hoped to tempt Sherlock into eating.

 

Properly chastised, an emotion likely foreign to Mycroft, the man advanced fully into the room – allowing his body to fold to the davenport. John pulled one of the nearby chairs around rather than drop down beside the other man. He recognized the heavy exhaustion in Mycroft's face – one with which he had intimate familiarity. Mycroft didn't do social calls without purpose. Any number of staff could have dropped off the violin. That he had made a personal trip spoke of a need to evaluate his brother with the one man who knew him as well, if not in some ways, better than he did himself.

 

“I should have been more aware of the date.” John waited while Mycroft gathered reserves against the dryness evident in his throat. As if in reward for good behavior, Mrs. Hudson appeared, then, with two cups of strong tea – more than a little tweaked if the flavor were anything to go by.

 

“Now, I needn't remind you this is a special circumstance. I'll expect you to make your own tea in the future.” Though John had long ago tuned out such statements – he couldn't count the number of times their landlady had prepared them tea, tarts, breakfast, and any number of treats and meals – all while stating that she wasn't their housekeeper and suggesting they had the wherewithal to see to their own feeding.

 

Oblivious to the older woman, Mycroft downed his cup in several swallows – setting the porcelain on the table with only a swallow or two remaining at the bottom.

 

“I was informed of his intentions but unable to prevent his admittance.”

 

“Unable?” He left it at that – though his judgement of the admission was clear.

 

Mycroft sallied a nonplussed look across the space between them. “You've met my brother; you've seen his methods. Tell me, Doctor, have you ever seen him denied occupancy to a space he desired entry no matter how well secured?”

 

Point well made, though John spared consideration for the staff Sherlock had bamboozled and whether their next post would be to guard the filtration tank at the Water Treatment Works.

 

“I arrived only moments after he'd been taken to the lower levels. Our... parents... were there.” Mycroft tapped the metal tip of his umbrella against the rug. “They hadn't known...”

 

John was a breath from asking clarification when his brain caught up. Dear God...

 

Still giving intense scrutiny to his hands, Mycroft forged on without pause for John's reaction to the reveal. “It was... vicious. It only took three notes for Sherlock to give himself away. My sister hasn't spoken in over a year, John. Tonight... she regaled.”

 

Perhaps it was the side effect of his profession – the need to redact and obfuscate and misdirect. Mycroft had a way of sharing that revealed dreadful implications without specifics – the withheld creating a picture more threatening than a dossier of details ever could. Where Sherlock thrived on the dramatic, Mycroft seemed to employ it passively – an instinctual mannerism like breathing. At another time, John would have indulged some thought on the shared theatrics among the Holmes siblings. Under these circumstances, though, the only indulgence in his future was a glass of whiskey; hold the tea.

 

“Come for a chat with John or merely here for Mrs. Hudson's special elixir? One would think you were reevaluating our stance on companionship, Mycroft.” Sailing into the room, hair still damp at his nape and dressing robe billowing from his shoulders like a cloak, Sherlock sported the familiar sharp edge of a man who'd spent the last four nights keeping sleep at bay.

 

Rising from his seat, Mycroft held out the violin case. “Merely returning your property, brother dear.”

 

Closing to snatch the case from his brother, Sherlock swept up the neglected teacup and threw back the remaining liquid. “I'm out of tea – _MRS. HUDSON_!”

 

Stomping back towards the kitchen, ignoring the cooling plate of toast, as well as the fluttering hands of his landlady, Sherlock played mind-reader by pouring a cup of straight whiskey and knocking it back by half.

 

Suddenly struck by the spiraling destruction brought to pass by Harry's addiction, John stood to approach his friend – holding out for the bottle to halt Sherlock in the midst of topping off his cup.

 

“Don't.”

 

He saw the ready anger fire in Sherlock's eyes and prepared himself for whatever manner it manifested, be it shouting or a bottle flung at his head. Instead he saw... recognition; following by Sherlock slamming the bottle into his outstretched hand hard enough to sting. The moment of grudging understanding passed as Sherlock pulled away from him – slugging down the remaining cup. Leaving John in the kitchen, Sherlock threw himself into his chair – though not without a tightly sucked breath at the obvious pain to still healing wounds.

 

“Mycroft; you're still here. Go away.”

 

“I'll see you out, shall I?” Eager, himself, to be free of the man, John was relieved Mycroft opted for acquiescence rather than argument and allowed himself to be escorted back down to street level. Long black car still idling at the curb, Mycroft buttoned his coat to the neck at the unseasonable chill. Flakes had started falling – less than ten minutes ago by the accumulation. And yet, chilled though they both were, Mycroft delayed.

 

“Assuming you've considered the list of candidates I'd provided, as well as my brother's propensity for self-destruction, I'm... disconcerted... that you've yet to make an appointment with at least one of them.”

 

“Assuming you remember who the last therapist turned out to be, should you really be surprised?”

 

How the man could be so brilliant in some areas yet so astoundingly stupid in others... Though, Mrs. Hudson had been bang on the mark when she'd blindsided Mycroft with how little he understood of his own brother. Toss emotions into the mix and it was anyone's game. While the elder Holmes would be unlikely to bat an eye at the association – Sherlock was not anywhere near as stoic as his brother. Certainly not now – walking the knife's edge.

 

At the reminder of the their middle sibling's mechanizations, Mycroft, at least, had the decency to blanch.

 

“Yes...” Straightening his coat, he pressed the metal tip of his umbrella against the sidewalk. “Well, you will update me on his recovery.”

 

John nodded. “Yes, of course; you'll be the first one I ring when Sherlock gets all better. After all, we've both seen how well he adjusts to psychological trauma.” No thanks to you the unworded addendum, though, John was certain the sentiment carried in his expression.

 

Mycroft had no reply to that other than to tighten his lips together. Having had enough of the other man, John exchanged curt farewells before returning to the flat.

 

No sign of Mrs. Hudson – no doubt shouted away for trying to feed her “precious soul” if the toast on the floor was an indication. Sherlock, of course, was scowling at him from the fireplace – though at least he'd left the whiskey alone.

 

“Is this to be a regular thing, then? You and Mycroft, having tea and tittering over anecdotes?” Sinking further into his chair, Sherlock rasped a hand down one unshaven cheek. “So how does the head hunt go, then? Settled on my new trick cyclist?”

 

John crossed his arms. He'd done his best to accommodate Sherlock's express desire not to be helped, coddled, sympathized, or in any way treated other than his usual. It came from a place of knowing, perhaps not the specific trauma, but variations of a theme that were world-shattering in their impact. He'd been in this place. There were no words – no actions, even, that could soothe what had to be worked through, essentially, alone. For some it took days, others weeks, or years, or... Yeah, there were some, too, where it never happened. The pain was too much... He was a doctor, not a psychologist. More than that, he was a soldier. He'd seen young men make it through the war without a physical scratch only to buckle under the mental bludgeoning. He'd seen men die – sometimes internally and sometimes by eating the barrel of their weapon. He didn't know how to stop the hurt – couldn't ease it one fraction the way he could tend a broken bone. Broken hearts had never been his specialty. But, by God, he'd stand in the line of fire before letting Sherlock... He cleared his throat and moved to the chair across from his friend – noting that Sherlock straightened, just a fraction, to keep their knees from brushing.

 

“Told Mycroft to bugger off, actually.”

 

Sherlock smirked, though it was a fraction of the usual delight he took in seeing his brother stymied. His face turned away – towards the fireplace. From that angle his untidy curls hid his expression. Been letting it grow out as of late. Normally kept his mop to a moderate length; he'd allowed it to grow out several inches in spite of Mrs. Hudson threatening her trimmers (John was convinced it was for dramatics alone that Sherlock disdained a shorter length; how could one give the full effect of an aggrieved head toss without the corresponding follow-through of a finger styled coif?).

 

“You are ogling.” His knee was jostling under the rapid tap of his heel.

 

“Your hair needs trimming.” First thing to spill from his mouth but it pulled Sherlock from the seeming disinterest. Not enough for a parry, however. Rather, Sherlock pushed his fingers through his shaggy curls – pulling a bit at the tips.

 

“Yes... I suppose it rather does.”

 

The moment slid past them, once more. The silence, abandoned in Mycroft's presence, and God did it twist something poisonous at the comparison, had been like a hit of cocaine – senses overloaded by the brash thunder of Sherlock's diatribe.

 

The silence that resumed was like death. Aside from the nervous heel – an endless tatter against the rug and revealing the anxiety that demanded a release. John couldn't bear it – seeing the life bleed from his friend. And though it stabbed him somewhere in the region of his throat to admit it, Mycroft hadn't been wrong that Sherlock needed an outlet. Right, then. Excise the wound.

 

“Sherlock, talk to me...”

 

“And what would you like to hear, John?” Eyes brighter than they'd been in weeks and John nearly pushed back from the intensity – raw and flushed with something far more powerful than a single emotion. “Perhaps how I made an utter shambles of my reconnaissance; leading to my abduction, imprisonment, beating, and rape?” A jagged swallow – eyebrows pushing high for just a second while he gulped around the tremor leeching from his words. “Nothing like a sharing session to clear the air. I could regale you about both or, should that be too much for one sitting I could regurgitate the experience one trauma at a time. So, which one shall it be? The beating or the rape? Details on how I was soundly thrashed to ensure a maximum of pain whilst maintaining my features to the delight of my rapist or would you rather hear the sweet nothings that said rapist whispered in my ears as he forced himself on me? Shall I flip a coin?” He went so far as to dig a quid from some inner pocket and slap it on the table at his side. His hand shook where it rested and he pulled it back – folding it with the other in his lap. His eyes, furious, hadn't strayed from John's face.

 

John met the look, unflinching. After nearly a decade of friendship, he'd faced every emotion the man could wield. Far from the mask of cool indifference, Sherlock had always burned beneath the surface. His passions ran hot – whether his explorations of science or his fascination with the human condition. He liked to play at being above the petty trifles of common mortals but John could categorically call bullshit on such a claim. Point in fact; he knew better.

 

Sherlock's breath, while measured, was faster than his normal resting rate. His hands still trembled though they were hidden. He couldn't, however, hide his shoulders which carried a similar shudder. But it was his eyes, cliché aside, that revealed his torment – reddened hollows and pupils down to points – leaving a widened ring of pale blue that appeared near other-worldly. John leaned forward over his knees; fingers loosely wrapped together between.

 

“When...” His voice caught, and he cleared it with a small cough, “When Mary... died... you saw what that did to me – to us.” He paused, long enough to see that Sherlock was listening – though his face was still fixed in a state of agonized rage. It was enough, though. “I lost myself. I... changed. I gave up. Not just on hope... people... I lost myself. And...” he stared at his hands, “and you paid... for that. And I never really told you, uh, how sorry I am. Sherlock – I took my pain out on you and you... let me. And I took advantage of that...”

 

“John...”

 

He pushed past the stiff warning in Sherlock's voice – hearing, too, the loosening of anger. “You were there for me. You were there in a way no friend... no family... ever has been. You... God...” He scrubbed the sudden spill of tears, voice trembling. “You would have died for me – without hesitation. Even after what I'd done, in the morgue, you'd have let that man...” He raised his eyes again. Sherlock looked stricken – withdrawn and sunk into himself. John wondered what horror he was walking through and felt a fresh wash of guilt that he'd been the one to place his friend there – then as well as now.

 

“Sherlock,” He waited; second after moment before those eyes tracked back to him. “You saved my life. You... you brought me back – from the darkest place I'd ever been... And, in spite of what I'd done, to stay there. You have been there in my moments of greatest happiness and bleakest desperation.” He swallowed but managed a shaky smile despite the moisture in his eyes. “Now how could I possibly offer any less than everything. You... are my best friend.” He shrugged a shoulder. “And whatever you want to talk about, I'm listening. I'm not going anywhere.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter has been slightly edited to make Eurus the middle sibling. It fits on multiple levels and I just really love the idea of Sherlock being the baby of the family. Not to mention there's a lot that could be argued about the jealousy arising when a new baby comes into a family. sgam76 has created a compelling series of stories - her most recent diving into a bit more of the dynamic amongst the Holmes children and I cannot, now, envision Eurus as anything other than a middle child.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some talking, some promises, and some comfort for these broken boys. Thank you so much for the lovely comments! I am tremendously delighted by the response to this story and I hope this next chapter goes a good way towards expressing my appreciation!
> 
>  
> 
> [](https://postimages.org/)  
>    
> 

Water sluiced down his back – already going cool. Akin to the inaccurate axiom about watching a boiling kettle, there was, it seemed, a better analogy to be found in showering. Time sense was lost to him under the spray. Never before, quite so bad as this, though never before had his cleansing ritual been visited by so many unwelcome mental images. Yet, it was because of those images that he found himself driven to this tiny stall and the dubious relief of scalding water. Sherlock braced his right arm across the tile and rested his forehead against his wrist – allowing the left to hang at his side. Pain still throbbed through his limb and he was overdue for his medication.

 

Lather long ago rinsed from his limbs, he tapped off the pipes – leaving him in a clammy space with dripping hair. Water tightened curls fell across his eyes and he carded them aside impatiently. Stepping over the lip of the shower, he slid his feet across the plush rug. He wrapped a hand around his left bicep – wincing at the pull in his shoulder. He should have taken a dose before bathing but... the shower had seemed far more urgent to wait.

 

Sniffing, he rubbed fingers across his lips and took in the fogged over glass that reflected back a grey shadow of his form. Dripping curls fell across his eyes for the second time and, for the second time, he swiped them back over his crown with an irritated grumble. John hadn't been wrong about the state of his hair. Snatching the narrow shears from the cupboard, he held them, for a moment, opening and shutting the honed blades. Then, abruptly, he pulled a handful of hair forward and hacked several inches – feeling the sudden impulse to cut it all away. The bottom of the sink grew dark as he trimmed with little care about keeping it perfectly even. Was hair cutting the new heroin? He didn't know about that save that the compulsion to keep chopping burned in his veins...

 

_Fingers left his hip to bury in his hair – running through the curls before gripping an agonizing handful; yanking his head back so hard he struggled to breathe..._

 

The shears clattered in the sink and he gasped – eyes wide as he took in the present – damp sink, scattered, curled trimmings, bronze fixtures... His breath heaved from his chest; drawing on the tepid air. He gulped, pushing the heels of his hands against his eyes, at the fresh tears streaking along his jaw. Shaking fingers pulled a large towel tight around his body. Skipping the shave, again, he unhooked the heavy terry robe from the back of the door and escaped into the hall.

 

Bundled from neck to heels, Sherlock closed himself in his room – hardly aware as he latched it behind him. Ignoring the drips trickling chilly trails beneath his collar, he sat on the edge of the bed – one pale leg exposed when his robe parted across his knee.

 

From the sitting room, the volume of the telly lowered by half. He could nearly feel the need for John to call to him and ask how he was. As if they hadn't covered the subject less than a fortnite past. Moments later, the volume returned to previous levels. Confrontation averted, then.

 

His right hand curled beneath his elbow – pulling his damaged limb closer to his side. Wretched to admit he should have heeded John's insistence on the sling – loathsome contraption still bundled at the foot of the bed where he'd flung it. Blowing a long sigh through his nose, he stood to loosen the damp towel from his middle – allowing it to drop to the floor. Equal parts boredom and anxiety had left him edgy and snappish – which, in turn, was far too easily accommodated by both John and Mrs. Hudson. Even bleeding Mycroft had chosen to tread with obvious care – enough that it made Sherlock's blood boil – starting the whole miserable affair circling like a fouled toilet. God! What he wouldn't give for a solid row! Or a murder. Or both. He could well see himself engaging some hapless bobby over the desiccated corpse of a high ranking member of British First. Well if one couldn't dream big why bother dreaming at all?

 

Skin still damp from the shower, he selected a heavy pair of trousers, one of his dark jumpers, pants, and socks; laying them out on the bed. From the sitting room, the sounds of the telly switched off.

 

“Sherlock, I'm out to fetch some take away. Is there anything you'd like?”

 

Disinterested in the topic, Sherlock pondered, instead, his sock choice. Perhaps the blue...

 

“Sherlock?” Right outside the door, then, John's voice was followed by a rap against the wood.

 

Inward curse at the full body flinch that triggered, heart thumping heavily at the summons, Sherlock clutched his black socks in one fist while freeing the other pair from the drawer. “No, I don't want anything!”

 

A pause, though he could hear his friend breathing beyond the door. “Right, well, I was thinking of going to Min Jiang. I could pick up your usual.”

 

“Oh for God's sake, John, go if you're going to go!”

 

A longer span of silence. The light beneath his door shifted with the uneasy movements of John's feet. After far too long a time the other man sighed. “Right, then... well, I'm off. Mrs. Hudson is just downstairs if you need anything, but I shouldn't be more than twenty minutes.”

 

An eye roll as response; he was sure John could deduce his reply; as though he wouldn't know the location of their landlady, at any given moment, by this point. “Fine, fine, just stop boring me with the details.”

 

No more inane persistence, after that, and the short stride moved back towards the sitting room and on to the door.

 

Sherlock clenched the socks to his chest at the sudden pressure against his bones. Many the time, before, when he'd wanted to crawl from his skin but those times had, very specifically, been connected to his level of intoxication. This, though... this was different. The compulsion was akin to mayflies burrowing into his veins – translucent wings flicking under his skin and sending bolts like low electric charge through his limbs. All at once he couldn't stand his space any longer – dropping the robe to the floor and shrugging clothes over his drying skin he wrenched open the door with one hand while the other was still occupied with adjusting his collar.

 

Too much silence; back in the sitting room. No telly, no radio, barely any traffic outside. He snapped on the set only to immediately snap it straight off again. He burned with the need for movement but where to go – God he'd kill for a murder and that irony wasn't lost to him.

 

Quick steps ascending towards the flat perking interest and supplied a possible end to his budding misery. Light rapping at the door revealed the visiter before her tremulous voice filtered through the wood. “Sherlock?” Pushing inside, Mrs. Hudson carried along with her, aside from a small parcel, the air of flustered unease. “Someone brought a package by. He said he thought it might belong to you.” Something as dull as mail she'd have merely dropped on the table for John to paw through at a later time. A personal delivery, however – there were any number of possibilities – better than half being some form of explosive. Could explain the tight lines around her lips and across her forehead. Well, one could hope, anyhow. He could do with an attempt on his life – explosives were anything if not fun.

 

Taking the package, delicately, the chance it was a bomb dropped towards single digits. While explosives could come in any shape and size, there were only three bombers amongst his enemies and all were incarcerated. Unlike some criminals, the craftsmen of explosives were not known to pass their work off to another to carry out. Sooner an artist would hand their brush to another to complete their masterpiece. No, this was something entirely different.

 

His heart beat a hard rhythm well before he placed the soft, paper wrapped package, on the kitchen table. Flipping open his small blade, he carefully cut through the tape – unfolding the stiff paper. His breath shuddered to a stop around his closing throat.

 

“Oh! Is that your scarf? I was wondering where that had got to – Sherlock?”

 

Darting around the older woman, Sherlock barreled for the door. Flinging it hard enough to bang against the wall, his mad rush cost him as his stockinged foot slipped on one stair – a wild grab for the bannister the only thing saving him from a savage tumble – though it also wrenched his bad shoulder and he heard a wet crunch beneath his stunted shout of pain.

 

Out onto the sidewalk – not feeling the cold as snow melted beneath his feet. Wide tracks in the street where a car had idled – cab, by the look of it. Precious little traffic otherwise, the thickening flakes keeping all but the most stalwart motorist shuttered indoors.

 

“Sherlock, oh my dear, you'll catch your death out here!” Mrs. Hudson again, her steps somehow missed during his contemplation, he lurched away from the hand she tried to place on his arm.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, I need to know exactly what the man looked like who delivered that package! Height, weight, did he have a funny mole – Details!”

 

Her eyes took in his wild state but she didn't shy from him – well used to his intensity after all the years she'd known him. “Oh, well... he was tall... A bit taller than you by about two inches, maybe. Thick but I wouldn't call him heavy. A little over seventeen stone I think. Brown hair... and he had a sort of flush – like he'd been drinking though he looked stone sober to me.”

 

“What about his eyes?” Sherlock's hand rose, as though to take hold of her arm, but he stopped short.

 

Mrs. Hudson shivered – the freeze getting to her as she, also, had left the building without a coat. “Oh, his eyes! Bright yellow, if you can believe that! I knew a man, years ago, had yellow eyes. Back when my husband was alive. Rival drug dealer. Ended up in the Thames, as I recall...”

 

But Sherlock wasn't hearing her. He studied the tracks – the direction – and managed two steps forward before Mrs. Hudson was in his path – arms out towards his chest.

 

“Are you mad? My good gracious; you're shivering! Let's get you inside – I'll fix you a cup and I think I have some lovely Welsh cakes left from my visit with a friend from Bingo – Mrs. Lainey – I think you know her...”

 

This time Sherlock allowed the touch of her hand against his elbow as she led him back inside. First seeing him to his own flat, she disappeared long enough to fetch the tea and cakes – setting the tray on the cleared space on the kitchen table.

 

Sherlock was still hovering over the hearth when she returned – one hand braced on the scarred mantle. John had made a fire before heading out and the warmth had awakened his awareness to the cold set deep in his core. His whole body was wracked with trembling and he didn't protest as, without a word, Mrs. Hudson draped his robe around his shoulders.

 

When she brought his tea, he held it close to his body – letting the warmth fill his hands. He had peripheral awareness of the older woman puttering about – leaving a bit of cake next to his chair before returning to the kitchen to tidy. Sherlock sipped his tea – his left arm held immobile against his belly. A different sort of heat pumped in his shoulder – stiffened and throbbing. No doubt John would insist on that hateful brace, once more – if not a trip to hospital for a full work-up.

 

Not ten past, the incautious tread of John's heavy step made its way up the stairs.

 

“Oh, John, let me help you with that, dear.”

 

“Oh, uh, thanks. Is – is everything alright?” No doubt John had picked up on the subtleties of his mood – he'd grown fairly adept at noticing when things were amiss.

 

“I'm not completely certain...” proceeding to share all that had transpired. Sherlock tuned it out and watched the dancing flames instead. So the game wasn't over. Couldn't say he was terribly surprised – sadists were not known for their conservative appetites and he clearly hadn't managed to bore this one – also no surprise.

 

“Jesus, is that...?”

 

“His scarf, yes; why, what's wrong?”

 

Sherlock whirled from his contemplation, though it sent a thrill of agony through his freshly injured shoulder. “Are you two quite finished with your gabble?” He pushed out a tight breath – feeling the humiliating flush of rare vulnerability that had become decidedly less rare in the last month. “If it's all the same to you, John, I'd prefer some privacy should you feel the need for any further revelations.”

 

A beat before John mustered a smile that traveled no further than his lips. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, for looking out for him. Would you mind...?”

 

Far from the batty geriatric she appeared on the outside, Mrs. Hudson had a shrewd intelligence and an admirable level of sensitivity. While questions, clearly, burned in her eyes, she allowed John to escort her to the door – leaving behind her admonition that they stop by for tea later in the week – a promise John could easily give and Sherlock could easily break.

 

With the door shut at her back, John left his hand resting on the wood a moment. Tension had hunched his shoulders – an understandable response and one that Sherlock happened to share.

 

Tapping two fingers against the door before turning, John shoved his hands fully into his pockets – chin tilted down but eyes raised up towards his friend. It was a familiar look – one that brokered a no nonsense policy between them and demanding a conversation Sherlock had no interest towards engaging.

 

“Your scarf.”

 

Turning from the stoney glare, Sherlock walked to the large windows – looking out at the thickening snowfall instead. He curled his toes around the wet ruin of his socks – hating the squidgy feel of saturated wool but unmotivated to remove them just then. “You've stepped up your observational skills – perhaps you'd like to venture a deduction?” Fat flakes whirled against the glass – obscuring his view and reducing the city to puzzle pieces.

 

“It was him, wasn't it. The one that delivered your scarf. He was the one who... the one who...”

 

“The one who raped me, yes.” Sherlock tipped back his cup, though his tea had, by now, lost most of its heat. Behind him, John made a small noise of distress and Sherlock felt an almost vicious satisfaction in return. Where John had yet to vocalize the exact terminology of his assault, Sherlock had made no attempts to do the same – never once trailing off into euphemism to soften the blow. He had been raped. Violently. As a doctor, John would surely have had patients who'd experienced similar trauma. That he shied from even using the word, now... It was baffling. More, it was... it was as though he were attempting to erase the reality. Yet, it wasn't John who'd been hurt. He had no right to whatever constipated emotions he was slogging through. Certainly if the one who'd been assaulted could put it behind him then John, as a proper friend, could see fit to do the same.

 

Shaking fingers sloshed the remaining tea and Sherlock clenched his hand – having no desire to shatter another cup.

 

“You've cut your hair.”

 

Sherlock tipped his head in a nod; flicking his gaze towards John's pale reflection against the pane. Hands still in pockets, face still focused on his friend – mouth drawn thin and tight.

 

“Is the entire evening to be filled with such scintillating observation or is this a special occasion?”

 

“Bit uneven. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson could straighten it out for you tomorrow.”

 

“Please...” he muttered in return, “Next you'll be telling me to shave and clean my teeth and eat.”

 

Gentle tread carrying him, then, across the rug, John stopped next to his friend – attention turning, also, towards the falling snow. “Well, I wasn't going to say anything but you have gone a bit seedy.”

 

Smirking, Sherlock finished his, now, cold cup and left damp tracks on the floor as he returned to his chair – John at his heels. “Cake?” He held out the plate Mrs. Hudson had left for him. John shook his head. “No, you have it. I've got dinner going cold.” Proceeding to the kitchen, he loaded a plate with ginger beef as well as filled a bowl with something from a styrofoam cup. Wonton soup, by the smell. Sherlock rolled his eyes – unsurprised when John returned and set the bowl next to his chair.

 

“Eat.”

 

Sherlock sighed. “Dull.”

 

Producing a spoon, John plunked it into the bowl – sending up several warm droplets to patter across the back of Sherlock's hand.

 

John tilted his head at the glare searing in his direction. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were saying that soup was boring so I thought I'd liven it up for you a bit.” Still eyeing him – fork stuck in his spiced beef and not even attempting a taste until Sherlock groaned something unintelligible and took the bowl – careful not to spatter himself further.

 

It had cooled some, in transition, though the temperature wasn't off putting.

 

They ate.

 

Repast trundled by with neither man speaking – each rolling their own thoughts around without need for conversation on the single topic they shared. It wasn't until John held out a hand for his bowl that Sherlock realized he'd finished his soup. He passed it back before folding into his chair; wincing at the throb in his shoulder. The pain had really begun to take hold, now, and he'd still neglected his medication.

 

“Are you going to let me have a look at that?” Back again, John pointed towards his injured limb – tucked gingerly against his side. Of course he'd noticed. Predictable as a bowel movement.

 

“Depends. Are you offering opiates?”

 

“How about a nice ice pack and your paracetamol. Neglected our medication again, did we?” Also predictable, John produced both items – leaving them on the side table while he went to fetch a large glass of water.

 

Allowing twenty minutes for the medication to take the edge off, John found a mildly more compliant patient. With much subdued wincing and a single, shaky, exhale Sherlock extracted his arm from the sleeve of his robe. Light prodding was tolerated but a somewhat more firm touch triggered a flinch he couldn't hide.

 

Sitting back so that Sherlock could pull his sleeve back into place, John passed him the ice pack to hold against the injury.

 

“Probably just strained it but I'll want a scan just to be certain it isn't more serious than that. I'll call in an appointment in the morning.”

 

“Hm.” Being all the response that Sherlock felt was warranted.

 

Silence resumed but it was less comfortable than before. No dinner to distract their thoughts – the delayed topic hunched alongside them – looming like a glacier about to calve.

 

“We should call the police.”

 

Sherlock didn't turn from the fireplace. “To what end? They haven't managed an arrest in well over a month – how will that have changed, now?”

 

“Protection, for one. It's obvious this man is stalking you.”

 

Now he did turn – tipping his head and squinting his eyes. “Is it really obvious? Because all he's done is return a lost accessory. He offered no threats, nor promises... point in fact, he never even spoke to me. The only person who saw him was Mrs. Hudson and as she'd had no prior engagement with this man her statement would reflect nothing more than a brief unease – easily explained away in that an individual would bother travel on a day with such poor conditions in order to return a scarf.”

 

John returned his gaze with a steady eye – the soldier rising to the surface with the perceived threat closing in on all sides. “I don't give one bloody shit what he may or may not have said – he's trying to wind you up and whether it's just to get a rise or because he has something worse planned, I'm not going to just sit here and do nothing – not again!” It was then Sherlock noticed the white knuckled hold John had on the arms of his chair – the fine tremor going through his hands. He steepled his own hands – rubbing his lips back and forth across his fingers.

 

“You didn't know. What happened wasn't your fault.”

 

Snorting, John was the one to turn away, then. “No? I'm a doctor yet I couldn't tell the difference between food poisoning and ipecac. Had I done I could have... maybe figured it out sooner – maybe could have... could have...” He gulped and a glisten of tears streaked down his chin.

 

“I'm not failing you again.” He turned towards his friend – no place for argument in his furious stare.

 

“If he comes around here again I'm going to kill him.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once more, thank you to everyone sticking with this story! I was unsure of the full scope of this tale when I'd posted the first chapter, but it has managed to weave itself together with far more ease than I'd thought it would! I'm so happy to present this next chapter and I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Some additional chapter warnings for referenced drug use.

It had been three weeks since the incident with the scarf. No further contact from the man, neither overt nor subtle, had taken place since then and John had finally, finally begun to ease out of red alert. The snowfall, that day, had been all of the accumulation they'd gotten, so far, and with rising temperatures most of the drifts had begun to melt away. In spite of that it was still chilly enough to warrant bundling – John in his usual outerwear and Sherlock in a new coat (delivered anonymously though with all of the glaring hallmarks that Mycroft's people had been involved) and a scarf from John himself, red rather than blue, as the previous one would never again rest around Sherlock's neck. Close enough to the holidays that he'd suggested it to be an early Christmas present – much to Sherlock's annoyance; though the man hadn't hesitated in wrapping it around his throat their first time out of the flat.

 

Today marked their third venture out into the streets since Sherlock's abduction – one that had the blood thrilling though their veins. A body had been found in Lambeth – not unheard of, given that location's reputation and the average murder was hardly interesting, (God he'd been spending far too much time around Sherlock). But what _had_ been interesting were the six dead parrots found stuffed in the dead man's sleeves...

 

Six hours – long time for Sherlock but by far not the longest – the last 30 minutes involving a long chase through soggy streets and, eventually, down to the mud thickened banks of the Thames – John making a full body tackle that finally halted their suspect's flight. It had shocked a grin from him, upon standing; slathered head to toe in greenish goo, when Sherlock roared with laughter. Greg had been kind enough, and grateful enough, to provide John with a wash back at NSY while the suspect was led off to interrogation – Sherlock insisting on joining the DI while John showered and changed into a pair of jeans and a shirt borrowed from Greg's overnight bag.

 

Afterwards, taking advantage of the lingering high and somewhat relaxed mood, a famished John had insisted on dinner at Angelo's. Before either one of them could select from the menu (correction; before John could select from the menu – Sherlock hadn't bothered with his and had merely sat in his seat with an odd smile) Angelo had sailed their way with two heaping plates of pasta as well as a bottle of good red wine. “House specialty!” On the house, too, as it so happened. John had devoured his, along with a few too many slices of warm Italian bread. Sherlock, for his part, had been more conservative – picking at the decadent meal. However, he'd eaten enough to leave John satisfied so he hadn't chastised his friend for sending back a little over half a plate. Nor were they left unscathed upon exiting – Angelo forcing a weighty paper bag into John's hands filled with fresh pastries “to have with tea later.” John could have done without the sly wink. Sherlock had merely smirked so that, too, he'd given a pass.

 

The cab ride home had been silent – as their cab rides were wont to be.

 

Mrs. Hudson was out when they arrived back at the flat. John promised himself to bring her some of the pastries, later, in hopes to appease her as both of them had left smears of mud in their wake from their filthy footwear. Yawning from the combination of darting around London after their killer followed by the heavy pasta and alcohol, John nodded as Sherlock mentioned something about tea while heading off to shed his muddy clothes.

 

In little time, John had two steaming mugs ready along with a plate of the fussy pastries. “Sherlock, tea's on!”

 

He set down their mugs and took his chair – tugging the paper from beneath the tea tray and shaking it open, one handed, as he took that first gloriously scalding sip.

 

He'd read through one article and started on the next when it occurred that Sherlock had yet to reappear. John lowered the paper to his lap. “Sherlock?”

 

Nothing. Not terribly concerned yet also terribly aware of his flatmate's guarded emotional balance, John set down his mug and stood – dropping the paper to the seat cushion. On his way back through the kitchen, he tucked the milk into the refrigerator – having left it out after preparing their tea.

 

Sherlock's door was shut so John rapped it with his knuckles.

 

“Hey, everything alright?”

 

Nothing.

 

Lower lip tucked between his teeth, he debated further intrusion. Twice his hand rose and fell – not quite meeting the wood. One hand swiped across the top of his head as he turned away – prepared to return to his chair and wait out his friend. But he hesitated. Unease had been building steadily and he felt himself nearly locked to the rug.

 

Huffing a breath at the foolishness of his inability to make a bloody decision, he took a single step back towards the kitchen when a soft voice halted him like a bat to the sternum.

 

“John?” Soft – hesitant in every way that Sherlock wasn't, the flutter of his name was like ice against his lungs.

 

“Sherlock?” Hand wrapping around the knob, he gave it a turn... it was locked. “Sherlock, the door's not open; you mind...?”

 

Again, nothing.

 

“Sherlock? Sherlock, open the door, please.” He gave it a little rattle and waited another few moments.

 

“Bloody hell...” Mutter fell between his teeth as debated going through Sherlock's coat in search of his lock picking kit when the latch clacked from the other side. As the plonker hadn't bothered to actually open the door past removing the minor impediment, John gave a warning rap with his knuckles. “I'm coming in.”

 

The expected reply, pointing out the fallacy for stating the obvious, never came.

 

Sherlock hadn't changed out of his muddy trousers. Dried bits of flaking muck had gathered around his feet. Death still, he made no acknowledgment as John took another step into the darkened room.

 

“What's going on?”

 

Stillness, only, for a moment. Then Sherlock tipped his head – gesturing towards the mattress blocked by his form.

 

“We've had a visitor.”

 

Dread and curiosity was a morbid sensation blending in his gut – the most hopeful scenario being the return of a certain woman to Sherlock's bed. In fact, he'd have given nearly anything for that to be the case. Psychotic, yes; but caring, too. Certainly she cared for Sherlock and, bizarre as it was they were no more an odd match than he and... John dashed further development of that thought – enough on his plate without reopening those jagged wounds still trying to heal. Doctor's orders.

 

The dark thing splayed out over the duvet made no sense, at first. Wool fanned out like a huge bird – shredded wings laid across the pillows – a slip of paper at the center. The confusion lasted as long as the seconds it took to process what it was.

 

He blinked; rocking back and forth on his heels. “Shit. That's your...”

 

“Coat.” Sherlock finished – his voice far steadier than it had been minutes before. “Bit predictable missive. Loses its flavor after repeated use.” Obviously referring to the handwritten note – _'Did you miss me?_ ' in red script. Sherlock leaned towards the bed though he kept his hands close to his body – observing with eyes, only, for the moment.

 

Walking around the opposite side of the bed, John crouched down near the cuff of the right sleeve. Frayed threads and tattered wool had begun to unravel along the destroyed seam. He sniffed – noting Sherlock doing the same across from him.

 

“Been washed. Smells like...”

 

Sherlock stepped closer – grasping the bedside table with his left hand to give him the leverage to tip forward and inhale. “Persil.”

 

“Well that helps not a bit.” John muttered. Only one of the more popular brands of detergent and probably most of the homes in London had a jug. “We should call Mycroft.” Already pulling his mobile from a trouser pocket.

 

“Why? Do you believe he fancies a sniff?”

 

An eye roll as he straightened, John paused in dialing. “I think if anyone would have caught this bastard on CCTV it would be him.”

 

“And what would that accomplish?” Wincing, Sherlock knelt; lifting a pencil from his table and using it to flip back the demolished sleeve on his side of the bed. John had several answers at the ready and, yet, filtered through his flatmate's likely responses – didn't bother with a single one. The reality was – they knew 'who' it was... but the answer they needed was 'where'.

 

“Well I'm at least going to call Greg. This is the second time this animal has paid a visit and if he tries it a third time there's damn well going to be a police presence.”

 

“No.”

 

John actually fumbled the keypad – staring across at Sherlock, who had straightened once more.

 

“No? Sherlock – this man isn't going to stop at keepsakes!”

 

“On the contrary, Mr. Watson.”

 

Both of them started – Sherlock taking two stumbles back while John had his Browning out and raised towards the figure in the door.

 

“Mycroft; Jesus bloody Christ...!” Epithet surging from his hammering chest, John took a second longer before lowering his weapon.

 

The elder Holmes merely looked down his nose at the two of them. Prick.

 

“Don't tell me I've left another instrument lying about – are you my errand boy, now?” Smooth condescension delivered in a level tone – only John could see the violent tremble in the hands Sherlock clutched behind his back.

 

“Nothing of the sort. Though, since it is the holiday season and mother has been on me about my eclectic gift offerings...”

 

Sherlock moved past his brother – the other two following him back to the sitting room where he lowered into his chair with less than the usual flounce. “Come now, Mycroft, John and I quite enjoyed the brandy you gave us last year.”

 

Lips going thin, Mycroft stood against the fireplace – hands wrapped around the handle of his umbrella. “You mean the Louis XIII de Remy Martin Black Pearl Grande Champagne Cognac given to me by the Marquess of la Boëssière-Thiennes and worth twenty-six thousand pounds that you nicked from my wine cupboard?”

 

John smiled, dropping into his own chair. “Quite enjoyed. Thank you, Mycroft.”

 

Rolling eyes at both his brother and his enabler, Mycroft brushed past the minor annoyance of their delight at his expense. “Be that as it may, I rather think you'll enjoy this year's offerings even more.”

 

Sherlock steepled his fingers – though not without a wince – ribs still tender; shoulder still a month out from full healing and the daft moron had been a monster to force into a sling. “Oh, I don't know – not unless you've a decanter of sixty-four Karuizawa residing in your trouser leg...”

 

Mycroft didn't so much as smirk – his eyes growing, abruptly, hard as flint.

 

“How about Alden Gruner?”

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

 

 

The lightness of humor shattered like a stone on glass.

 

Sherlock froze – the better alternative to his desire to shove from his chair and pace – fingers of tension slipping beneath his skin all because of a name. Grainy playback, already looming upon discovering his coat, took several lost minutes to force back from his eyes. Returning to himself he felt somewhat less disturbed by the figure lounging against his fireplace – fingers pushing into the eye sockets of the skull residing on the mantle.

 

Leaving the specter to wander about the flat, so far silent though clearly pleased at having escaped the locked space of his mind palace, Sherlock caught up with the conversation that had begun without him.

 

“...all just a trap? Letting him leave his little trinkets?” John was standing – when had that happened? At his back, Moriarty mimed pulling a gun and aiming it towards Mycroft.

 

“We have had the both of you, as well as Mrs. Hudson, on twenty-four hour surveillance. Had anything beyond taunting been attempted we would have intervened immediately. We have been following him, since the moment he'd first reappeared, in hopes that he would lead us back to... the bigger fish.” He shrugged.

 

“Yeah – I seem to remember how that had ended last time,” John snapped; fists already tight at his sides. “So what changed then, Mycroft? Why grab him now if you're more interested in those _bigger fish_?”

 

“I already told you.” Mycroft locked his eyes with Sherlock – a there and gone emotion of cold fury in the tightness of his lips, “we intervened.”

 

Sherlock understood, immediately; John comprehending in nearly that same moment. So it hadn't meant to be just a taunt, this time. Still, he couldn't help but wish Mycroft had stayed away from it. John hadn't stopped carrying since Sherlock had been found. It could have been over with a single bullet.

 

“Where?”

 

Sidling closer, Moriarty began to circle Sherlock's chair; face cracking open in a grin. “Are you really sure that's what you want, Sherly? It isn't as though you have the best track record against those who've hurt you. Couldn't do a thing with me! I had to blow my own brains out because you'd gotten just – so – plain!” He shouted – stomping dramatically with each extended word. “Then there was that contrary Mary! Ooooh, you liked her! Put a hole right through your middle and you still kept her around. What you won't do for your pets...” Suddenly, his face was hard against Sherlock's – so startling that he flinched back in his chair. _“WHAT DID THEY HAVE THAT I DIDN'T!?”_

 

“Sherlock?” Gasping, Sherlock blinked and Moriarty was gone – John's concern wrinkled face replacing the madman.

 

Ignoring his friend, Sherlock pushed from the chair and put some space between himself and the other men – his agenda crafted around the excuse of fetching his coat.

 

“Where, Mycroft? We both know it isn't Sherrinford.” He tugged the stiff fabric in place – the wool needing several outings before it would fit him as perfectly as its predecessor.

 

“No.” Mycroft still hung near the fireplace – though he gave no move to dissuade Sherlock from the clear intent of his actions. That was the very reason for his reveal, after all. “We have a... facility.”

 

John, however, had his hand out towards his friend. “Sherlock – tell me you don't intend to confront this monster.” His chest lifted in a rough breath when Sherlock chose not to answer – his eyes saying everything. This wasn't desire... his heart freezing at the very idea. No, this was a trip through Dante's Inferno. But it was also the only path back to something vital that had been ripped from him. And perhaps John saw that in the set of his stance – the fingers clenched tight and shaking. “Right, well, talking you out of whatever madness strikes you being ever a success; obviously you aren't going alone.”

 

Not quite a smile, as John moved to fetch his own coat, Sherlock let out a stifled breath of his own. Though John had been more than accommodating to his wildly shifting moods, as of late, he also understood the fears rippling beneath the surface. No less warranted for all that he understood – there had been days, even recently, where he'd found his fingertips rubbing at old scars running along the undersides of his arms. The pressure of that need... that softly cocooning focus... never left the untamed back of his mind. Of late it had become rather harder to suppress. A slipping needle to chase away all those bothersome emotions...

 

But he could not allow his failures to drag him down that path again. Not for this. Not for twenty minutes of torment. He'd suffered pain before – for longer periods and with far less support. This wasn't Serbia. Nor was it being shot by one friend, nor beaten by another – no matter how deserved. As for mind games, he'd been confronted by the best and watched their brains splatter across the ground. This was nothing more than an annoyance and it was far past time it was sorted.

 

He lifted his dark red scarf from its hook and draped it around his throat “Well... shall we get a move on, then?” Tugging his collar high around his cheekbones, he smirked. “It's Christmas, after all.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS!!! This is the chapter I've been building up to! This was thrilling to write but also difficult given the subject matter. Please heed the warnings as there are numerous references to past rape and a lot of triggering elements.

Of course, Mycroft ever being the consummate bureaucrat, had held up their dramatic exit for nearly an hour – speaking tersely into his mobile and, no doubt, mobilizing half of the government agencies under his thumb. Finally, though, and with his tight face pinched even further, he'd led them out of the flat.

 

The last of the snow was disintegrating; washing away under the steady fall of rain. Shoulders hunching, Sherlock made no comment as his brother walked just to his left – umbrella fanned open above their heads.

 

More than enough room for the three of them in the back of Mycroft's government issued vehicle, Sherlock still tucked himself against the far door – fingers tracing against the handle without allowing much thought as to why.

 

As it was, the drive lasted little over thirty minutes.

 

The large building they pulled up to was squat and wide – outer walls curving away and surrounded by acres of grey lawn – fences hidden by elms and hawthorn. Tall glass doors slid aside at their approach – the interior oddly absent of life but for a single woman behind bulletproof glass at the far side of the lobby.

 

A few words from Mycroft, an unhappy smile in return, and they were buzzed through to a hallway containing two lifts.

 

Not the dungeon he'd have imagined, though perhaps that was just fancy, as Mycroft had often accused him. Modern – bright, even, from the inside it looked much like any standard police precinct – though Sherlock knew this to be far away from any publicly funded facility.

 

The wide lift took them several levels below ground and Sherlock found himself mentally retreating – breath gaining speed as clean walls swapped with stone and back again – the oiled scent of Mycroft's Italian loafers twisting into the stench of horse manure. He hadn't even known he was backing away until his spine collided with the wall – the hard contact pushing him, once more, into the present and the humiliation of John and Mycroft watching him with shared expressions of confusion.

 

It was John, though, who spoke.

 

“Are you sure about this? It doesn't have to be today.”

 

Composure was a facade he'd had decades in crafting – putting his shoulders to the mental door that had opened against his wishes and forcing the contents back inside. Pulling his collar a bit higher, he even structured a sneer. “Please. And miss this chance to see the rat in its cage?”

 

If Mycroft and John chose to share a look it was nothing to him. They could look until their eyes burned but he had already given them enough fodder for their future natterings.

 

In minutes they'd arrived at the first checkpoint. The three of them stood still – arms out as they were searched, first manually, then with a wand, to assure they carried no weapons. John made a snarky comment about whether he'd need to remove his boots.

 

So they made him remove his boots.

 

His flatmate whinging about losing his footwear went leagues towards settling the tension that had been gripping Sherlock through to his bones. Up until the final door, he was able to distract himself from the tedium of anxiety – winding up John with the blunt observation that, were they to encounter further checkpoints his friend might well lose his entire wardrobe.

 

But all of that fell away when they came to their last barrier.

 

From this point he would go on alone. John had offered... nigh insisted, on staying with his friend. Sherlock, however, had been firm. This was his to face.

 

Setting his shoulders, John and Mycroft hanging back; neither man appearing pleased (though to be fair, with Mycroft, that was his default setting), Sherlock stepped through the door.

 

Into the rat's cage.

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

Glass walls – Sherlock noted the reflections – lights doubled in the glass – his own reflection, pale and translucent, showing against the center pane. Smaller, more than half, than the cells at Sherrinford. Walls the same, plain, concrete. Single toilet, single bunk, single desk bolted to the floor. Single occupant – fitted in grey trousers and a stained white undershirt. His bare feet left moist tracks on the smooth floor.

 

Gruner's lips spread – peeling away from his teeth.

 

“Sheeerlock...” Still in the middle of the room – arms slack at his sides. His eyes rolled shut and he tipped back his head – sniffing. “Mmm... mm... mmm...” Lizard yellow eyes opened once more. And then he laughed – spreading out his arms. “Aw, love! Naw – I ain't no Hannibal Lector. Can't smell you through the glass. Oh, but I remember your smell. Mm... Delectable. Come on – stand close to the food slot. Give us another wiff.”

 

Remaining just inside the door, Sherlock rubbed his thumb against his fingertips. “Not Hannibal Lector, no – you've hardly the vocabulary.” Mycroft was in his ear though he gave him about as much of his attention as he always gave Mycroft – less, even, with the attempt to micromanage the conversation. “I see they'd fed you well, on the run. You've gained ten pounds.”

 

“And you've lost at least as much.” Gruner's eyes traveled up and down – his smile never wavering. “Slender... like a young lad. I could just about put my hands all the way around your middle.”

 

This was getting nowhere – and the verbal agreement came through the tiny speaker in his ear.

 

“ _He's talking you into circles. Don't let him draw you in. Keep the conversation under your control.”_

 

He'd have silenced the blasted device had he not agreed to the caveat. It was the only way to keep Mycroft appeased enough to remain behind. And there was no chance Gruner would talk with big brother tagging along as chaperone.

 

“Tell me where they are.”

 

Stepping back a few paces, Gruner curled his fingers around the backrest of his plastic chair. “You mind if I sit? Been walking around this cage for fifteen minutes waitin' for ya. Could have been doin something else but I didn't want to be distracted if ya showed up early.” He smiled – tongue dragging across his teeth as he settled his elbows on his knees.

 

Sherlock rested his hands in his coat pockets. “Tell me where they are.” He enunciated with deliberate articulation.

 

Blunt fingers clasped tight – thumbs tapping in the middle. “Why should I?”

 

“You mean, what's in it for you?”

 

Gruner scratched his jaw and sat back. “Basically... yeah. What do I get out of it? I tell you everything I know... what's my reward? Some slightly bigger cage? Maybe a picture window with an amazing view of a brick wall?”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“ _No, Sherlock, no bargains-!”_

 

Sherlock tossed his head – speaking over his brother's interference. “Tell me what you want.”

 

Gruner rubbed his hands over his thighs. “I want _you_... to tell... _me_.” His eyebrows lifted.

 

Sherlock refused to give in to the crawling sensation that urgently wanted to pace. Movement helped him think – the more erratic the better. However, Gruner need not gain additional handholds in his mind. Maintain control. God, and how he hated that it was his brother's voice that spoke that blasted mantra.

 

“Tell you what?” He didn't need Mycroft's warnings about matters of security – as though he were some sort of air-headed office gossip. They repeated in his ear just the same.

 

Gruner licked his lips. “Where did you go?” At Sherlock's questioning tilt, he grinned. “When I was fucking you.”

 

Sherlock held his breath – took that moment to close his eyes. Just a moment. He'd known Gruner would insist on taunting him about his rape. He'd estimated the likelihood of the various points of interest including Gruner's use of intimate terms to describe the assault. However, Sherlock had not anticipated... this. He should have – his emotions had seized control, once again, and had compromised his ability to anticipate. He licked his lips and tasted sweat.

 

Gruner chuckled – a guttural sound that brought Sherlock back into the room.

 

“They all go somewhere. Mountain top...” His eyes wandered down Sherlock's form once more, “or some beach... next to an endless ocean...” Attention oozed back up, “or maybe just back to your flat. With your mate... plucking your violin?”

 

Sherlock felt a stone settle against the back of his throat. He could hardly work a whisper past the cold tightening in his chest. “What makes you think I went anywhere?”

 

“ _Sherlock, you need to keep him on topic. We need to know where we can find Carlotta.”_

 

The belly laugh was a sudden break in their soft conversation – he felt the hairs on his arms lift.

 

“Oh, sweetheart! Oh, dearest... I could _feel_ it! I can always feel it.” Eyes slitted tight, Gruner leaned back against the chair rest. “Does big brother know what I felt with you? How about we tell him, hm? How you trembled when I touched you? Even now I can hear the sounds of those chains around your wrists rattling. I've had women not make a sound but you... oh you... Begging me. ' _Please don't – please stop – please, it hurts...'_ ” Gruner rubbed his hands on his thighs. “You remember how it felt? Yeah... yeah you do. That sound you made when I pushed inside. Uhh... yeah... Almost went off right then. Guess it was all the anticipation.” He smiled – all teeth. “I wanted to just stay inside you. But it felt so good... I don't think I've ever had anyone that felt so good.” His hands rubbed harder.

 

Sherlock could no longer look directly at the man – eyes finding a reflection on the metal toilet, instead. He tasted a stale foulness in the back of his throat. Acid – burning in his esophagus.

 

“You started bleeding. Then you started cryin.” Gruner laughed – the sound like a grunting boar. “And then you begged John Watson to save you.”

 

 

◦

 

 

 

“No, Mycroft, stop this. Stop this, now!” John would have forced the doors were they not locked and guarded by two nondescript agents in nondescript uniforms with very specific military issue Socom 16 tactical rifles across their chests.

 

Mycroft pointed towards the older man sharing the room – Chief Secretary of Intelligence and Security at the JIC, Sir Rodric Greenhill. “Shut it down. I want him out of there immediately.”

 

Greenhill grunted. “Are you mad? You are the one who demanded we allow this interaction. Would you truly have me believe you cannot stomach a bit of crass language? The loo walls at the local pub contain more titillating fare. You're M16, Mycroft. You watched your brother being beaten for half an hour during his extraction from Serbia. Surely this doesn't even rate.”

 

“I'm sorry, you what...?” John's stiff question went ignored as Mycroft took a single step towards the much larger man.

 

“Need I remind you, that operation is still considered Top Secret! As for my brother, he doesn't work for the Joint Intelligence Committee!”

 

Hands sliding into his trouser pockets, Greenhill showed no emotion beyond boredom. “No, he doesn't. However, you do. I have to say, Mycroft, that there have been a good deal of rumblings about your use of M16 resources to carry out ongoing surveillance of your little brother. There's already been rather serious questions regarding your involvement with Eurus Holmes and that messy business last year. You know as well as I that Carlotta Magnussen cannot be allowed to roam free. Not with her resources. Make no mistake, I will throw anyone in front of a speeding train to assure she does not remain at large. And that includes your brother.”

 

Seething, Mycroft pushed into the larger man's space – eyes taking in the thickness of Greenhill's jowls – estimating the amount of force it would require to squeeze the layers of fat to interrupt the function of his larynx. “My brother is not your pawn! Furthermore he is crucial to M16 and is considered to be an asset.”

 

“An asset? I'm confused, Mycroft, does he work for us or doesn't he? Because, unless I'm wrong, Sherlock Holmes is currently a freelance consultant – certainly not one of the Crown's top agents. In other words, he's expendable.”

 

 

◦

 

 

 

 

“So, tell me about it. Unburden yourself. I can see how much it weighs on you, Sherlock. Go on.”

 

Sherlock shook his head – chest heaving. He was falling, again. He didn't know how to get out. This was supposed to have been his chance to look the demon in the eyes as he vanquished him. Dragon slayer, his brother had called him. He couldn't even slay a mouse.

 

Gruner leaned forward; his smile gone. “You want to know what I know? This is my price. So... you want me to spill? Then you are going to tell me. Tell me... _**right now**_.”

 

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

Greenhill's hands were clasped over his bleeding nose – red drops staining his collar. “I'll have your job, Mycroft!”

 

“Oh, I don't think so.” Mycroft spread his fingers – taking in the damage. Never had been a fan of pain – or violence, really. Yet, in spite of the... distastefulness... there was an earthy, savage sort of appeal. “You're right – Sherlock doesn't work for the Crown. At least... not often. But, where you miscalculated, was in thinking he was ever expendable. You see, he happens to be a favorite of a certain, how shall I put it, _esteemed_ client. One who has more than enough resources to redistribute your talents into scrubbing the Royal kennels.” Mycroft's eyes narrowed; bruised fingers squeezing into fists. “I assure you, my brother is valuable in ways you cannot possibly comprehend!” Shouting, now, he advanced on the startled man. “You will end this interview, _NOW_ , or it is your job that will be in jeopardy! Is that clear!?”

 

“Mycroft...”

 

He turned away from Greenhill – who had made a hurried exit and was now speaking to the men outside the doors. John had gone back to the bank of monitors, his hand up holding his earpiece tightly in place. His eyes were stricken and there were tears on his cheeks. “Oh, God, Sherlock...”

 

Why couldn't he...? Mycroft first put a hand to his ear – the small device missing – dislodged in the scuffle. Sherlock had his back to Gruner – his lips moving. Mycroft didn't need the earpiece to read what his brother was saying. It was a name.

 

Mary.

 

John had both hands wrapped over his lower jaw – tears clouding his eyes.

 

Maybe it was the excess of sentiment brought about by recent events – something he intended to get sorted within himself just as soon as this entire business was concluded – but Mycroft laid his unbruised hand on John's shoulders. “Let's go get my brother, Doctor Watson.”

 

John nodded. “Right.” He stood alongside Mycroft – scrubbed the tears from his cheeks, and raced with the other man out of the room.

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

 

It was the one treasured memory among the excrement. Speaking it, now, for this embodiment of human filth, tore him open like so much fragile parchment. To know that his rapist had, not only, managed to claim his body, but now a priceless corner of his mind palace, as well, was unbearable.

 

Sherlock pulled in a breath – head still clouded. From the other side of the glass, he heard a groan. He turned...

 

Gruner's trousers were around his ankles; his hand was between his legs. And he was staring at Sherlock.

 

Eyes squeezed tight, Sherlock turned away – tuning it out with minimal success.

 

Mental escape was a darkened hallway – echoing with the sounds behind him. He bit his cheek; bit until he tasted blood – until Gruner finally finished and everything was silent, once more. Already he had begun adding this encounter to his growing deletion pile; though he'd been struggling to eradicate memories. They just kept coming back...

 

He swallowed, several times – knowing how much he was failing to collect himself. He had to do this. He had to.

 

“You got what you wanted; now, tell me what you know. Where can I find them.”

 

The chuckle made him turn. Gruner tipped his head down. Hand still palming his crotch, he shrugged. “No idea. We parted ways after Appledore. I haven't seen them in months.” He smiled.

 

Fully facing the glass again, Sherlock snarled. “You lie. We made a deal. Tell me what you know!”

 

Gruner stood – tugging up his trousers before kicking the chair aside. “That is what I know. Aww... please don't feel so sad, Gorgeous. Come on, now. Give us a smile before you go. I want to remember that beautiful face tonight.”

 

“You lie!” Sherlock was against the glass, then – fist slamming against the smooth surface. “Gruner! Tell me what you know!”

 

The other man only waved. “Let's not make a scene, my love. Time to go bye-bye now. You tell that big brother, of yours, thanks for the date. I had a fantastic time!”

 

“Gruner!” Twice more he punched the glass, the third time leaving a smear of bright red. Gruner, however, was no longer engaged. Instead, lying down on his cot, he faced the wall.

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

The door locks slammed home and Sherlock stumbled – tearing out the earpiece with shaking fingers.

 

Hunching forward, gagging, he vomited across the dull blue tiles. He spat acid, only to vomit a second time – pressure crushing his chest until he dry heaved.

 

His hands shook and he balled them under his folded arms – unable to straighten – only shiver. His teeth wouldn't stop chattering! He wondered if there was some sort of atmospheric crisis – as the temperature had plummeted in the last several moments. He had to move – even if he had no direction. Two steps on and he stopped – knees trembling too much to bear his weight – forcing him to crouch against the wall. Not enough oxygen – blurred eyesight and gasps sucking at the air – skin crawling with invisible gnats. Pebbled flesh prickled across his arms and along his spine. He was trapped within his own transport and was desperate to claw free – desperate to get out of his own flesh.

 

Only seconds, maybe, before heels were pounding against the tile – figures filling his space and he flinched from the reaching hands. His eyes felt wet when he closed them. He hadn't known he'd been crying. But all at once his sinuses felt packed with wadding and heat filled his skull. Both hands mashed against his eyes – pushing so hard that the black went supernova – orange and gold vibrating behind his lids.

 

His insides felt crushed and he couldn't think – couldn't control the violent tremors.

 

“Sherlock? It's alright. I'm right here, mate. Would it be okay if I touched your shoulder.”

 

A moment, and Sherlock nodded. The familiar hand pressed against his shoulder and he sighed. Almost immediately the stress began to seep out through his limbs – leaving behind micro-tremors and exhausting weight. John shifted until he was sitting down alongside him. With little hesitation, Sherlock slumped against his friend's side.

 

John's arm wrapped over his shoulder and Sherlock heard the wild chaos in his mind begin to quiet – soon vanishing to silence.

 

He noted Mycroft's black leather shoes several paces away – moving back and forth while his brother engaged in a heated conversation on his mobile. Several minutes later the movement stopped – then approached.

 

“The car is waiting for us if you're ready. I don't know about you but I'd like to get out of this Godforsaken place.”

 

“A moment more, Mycroft – if you wouldn't mind?”

 

Sherlock, for his part, said nothing – though he noted how quickly Mycroft acquiesced to John's request.

 

The tremors had finally left his limbs completely – though Sherlock wasn't yet ready to sit up. John, likewise, seemed just as content to remain seated.

 

“I'm sorry. We would have been here sooner but that absolute bastard, Greenhill, tried to pull rank.”

 

Sherlock had his arms tucked between his knees – palms sliding together in a regulated motion. “Greenhill... Isn't he the one with the Union Jack tattooed across his expansive arse...?”

 

John grinned, chuckling. “Sounds about right. You should've seen Mycroft. Didn't know he had it in him. Properly belted Greenhill and like as not busted his nose. Didn't think he'd so much as swatted a tick his whole life.”

 

Having seen the state of his brother's knuckles, Sherlock found himself unable to speak of the sea-change that would have triggered his brother's, heretofore, unknown violent tendencies; other than one, salient, observation. “John, I think that my brother has been spending far too much time with you. You seem to be a terrible influence.”

 

The two of them broke into helpless giggles at that.

 

John wiped tears, thankfully humor induced, from his eyes. “Ah... Do you really suppose Greenhill has the Union Jack across his arse?”

 

The giggles were even more furious, this time – triggering an irritated throat clearing from Mycroft somewhere further down the corridor.

 

Then suddenly, Sherlock's laughter stuttered. His eyes went wide. “Oh!”

 

John sat back. “Sherlock? Are you alright? You... you've thought of something.”

 

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, he began clawing himself upright – John quickly gaining his feet and helping him the rest of the way.

 

“I need to go back in.”

 

“No – no, Sherlock – no...” John tried to block him and Sherlock impatiently tried to duck around him.

 

Responding to the commotion, Mycroft strode rapidly towards to the two of them. He neared them just as Sherlock tore away from John and headed back towards the door – tugging high the collar of his coat. “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

 

Stopping in front of the still locked door, Sherlock blew air from his nose and scowled at his brother. “Confronting my rapist, obviously. Open the door.”

 

Arms crossed, Mycroft made no move towards that end. “I seem to remember you'd already done so. Is there a reason we're revisiting this macabre dance?”

 

Smiling, Sherlock tucked his hands in his pockets. “The best reason of all, brother mine. I've solved the case!”

 

 

◦

 

 

 

He wasn't alone. Not this time. Bracketed on either side by John and Mycroft, Sherlock was, once again, looking through the glass at the source of countless nightmares.

 

Gruner, delighting in the return of his plaything, with guests, had approached the glass close enough that he could lean against it.

 

“Oh, I missed you too, baby.”

 

Sherlock smirked. “Hannibal Lector; you'd made that comparison earlier – the gentleman cannibal possessing, among his other qualities, an acute olfactory sense. Something with which you, clearly, lack. Among other things.” He swallowed and he could feel John's eyes on him. He deliberately took a step towards the glass. “You may not have been able to smell me but I could clearly catch your scent wafting through the vents. Beneath the veneer of repulsion I could detect the odor of fresh bread and garlic. Initially I'd assumed it was merely the remains of your last meal but it occurred to me – you've a cousin who is employed at a bakery. All of those heavy carbs; no wonder you put on weight.” He stopped, only a moment, to see the anger, now, prominent in Gruner's eyes. “The police had spoken with him, of course, but unsurprisingly they didn't dig deep enough. You've been staying with him. For quite some time, in fact. How many threats did you make against his wife and children? How long, do you think it will be, for him to out your sister and her lackey?”

 

Gruner clenched his hands. “I told you. I don't know where they are...”

 

“Oh, but we both know you're lying.” Sherlock smiled. “Your tattoo speaks loud and clear. Fresh, by the look of it, no more than two days old – nor have you been treating it properly and no wonder, being in such an intimate location, and given your predilection for flogging the bishop. Nasty habit, that; were mummy and daddy not keen on their youngest?” He fashioned a sympathetic pout – clucking his tongue before hardening his eyes. “No wonder, given the shining star that was their elder daughter – slow-witted and dim even amongst your peers you'd have stood out as woefully deficient compared to your big sister.”

 

John, still catching up on the rapid-fire deductions, abruptly shook his head. “Hold on – why is the tattoo significant?”

 

Sherlock turned towards him, eyebrows hiked. “Hm? Tattoo...? Ah, yes!” His finger pointed – spinning in a tight circle. “Recent addition, delicate location, your sister's quiet companion, Richard Brunton – primarily a thug for hire but occasionally he likes to dabble in the arts. Mostly fashioning his own tools of torture but he's also shown an interest in body art. Particularly, tattooing. Now, as I say, dabbling – and not particularly skilled if that capital S were anything to go by. Or was it a z?” He squinted his eyes before shaking his head – image scrubbed out of the air above his head. “As of two days ago, you were sharing a room with Brunton. Due to the speed with which you were apprehended it's unlikely you'd have had time to alert him. Additionally, given your plans, for me, the delay in your return will be unlikely to trigger any concern. You should know that, prior to this conversation, M16 agents were mobilized and will be collecting Mr. Brunton in short order. How dedicated, do you think, he will be to keeping your secrets?”

 

Seething, Gruner slammed his fist against the glass – just below the smear of blood on the opposite side.

 

“Fuck you!”

 

Expressionless, Sherlock shook his head. “Oh, no... this time, it is you who is fucked.”

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

Back in the hallway, Sherlock braced one hand against the wall. John stayed close to his side while his friend simply breathed – head bowed.

 

After a moment, he placed his hand on Sherlock's arm. “You ready?”

 

Eyes squeezing tight Sherlock nodded. “Ready.”

 

Accompanied by Mycroft, they headed back out to the car. Time to go home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never fear - this isn't done quite yet! There are a few more chapters to go as well as some very unexpected plot points to come onto play!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus Chapter! Hooray for long weekends!
> 
> I've had this scene mostly written out for the past 6 chapters. It kept getting pushed further and further as it never seemed the right time to use it. I'm so glad I'd waited because it has, I feel, so much more power to utilize it at this point.
> 
> Finally, finally we get an appearance of the glorious Molly Hooper!
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this much needed interlude after so many rough chapters!
> 
> Thank you to everyone reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! As you know, those things are lifeblood to a writer and I thrive of any feedback you have for me!
> 
>  
> 
> [](https://postimages.org/)  
>   
> 

“ _I'm sorry to call on such short notice. Rosie's got a bit of that stomach bug that has been making the rounds at preschool... Well, the point being... I need your help. It's looking like we... uh... might be having a danger night...”_

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

Mrs. Hudson was there when she arrived – her eyes anxious and exhaustion lending a tremble to her limbs. “I'm sorry John wasn't here to let you in – he's upstairs with Rosie. Poor thing.”

 

Molly wound the scarf from her neck and folded the brightly colored knit in her hands. “Is Rosie alright? She hasn't gotten worse since we spoke...?”

 

“Oh, no, dear. Oh, I'm so sorry – I didn't mean to make it sound so dire. She'll be just fine in a few days. He just didn't want to leave her alone. Why don't you head on up? I'll put a kettle on and bring you some tea once it's ready.”

 

Smiling, Molly nodded. “That sounds wonderful.” She fiddled with her scarf – hesitating at the bottom of the stairs. “John... didn't say what brought this on... I mean... well, I know it isn't any of my business... but he's been doing so well, and...” She shrugged. She knew addiction was a lifelong battle. She was personally familiar with Sherlock's struggle – she'd tested his urine more times than she could remember and it didn't get much more personal than that. But it had been more than a year...

 

All traces of a lighter mood had vanished from Mrs. Hudson's face. Her hand reached for Molly's shoulder – her eyes damp. “He won't talk about it.” For a moment, her fingertips covered her lips as she blinked away tears. “Oh, I can't... I can't tell you. It would destroy him if he realized that I...” She swallowed, pulling herself together. “Go on, then. He could use your smile.”

 

It was overcast, outside, throwing the stairwell into deep shadows. Christmas was only a week out but it was as though nobody in the building had been informed. Between John and Mrs. Hudson, the two had always made an effort to decorate with lights and garland on every immobile surface; not to mention a grand tree covered in ornaments. This year, there was nothing. It reminded her of that awful Christmas after Mary had died.

 

Even with the heat on, everything felt damp and chilly. It was so quiet. No sounds of the telly, no delightful gallop of Rosie's small feet or the twinkle of her laugh. No violin – not his moody forays into classical, the traditional melodies of Christmas songs, nor the rarer exploration of his unique compositions. She wanted to hurry but her steps creaked with steady progression – something black settling against her lungs.

 

Crossing the short landing, to the door, she held her scarf against her chest. She'd been here before; Sherlock in crisis and his friends closing ranks to keep vigil until either one of three things happened; he got past it with the excitement of a new case, he hit bottom and ended up using again, or... he did something insane. She could admit she'd prefer finding him with a syringe of heroin versus option three – either confronting a serial killer or faking suicide and vanishing for two years.

 

“Are you intending to hover on the threshold all evening, Molly?”

 

She jumped – his voice had come from just on the other side of the wood. A moment later, the door opened and Sherlock stood – waiting for her to enter. Her fingers tugged at the cotton knit in her hands and she pinched a tiny smile at him as she stepped into the room.

 

Well they'd certainly reestablished that lived-in stage of restoration; a year in the making. Dishes stacked on the side tables, crumpled papers drifting across the rug, postage heaped on the mantle, board game stabbed into the wall... But no familiar black kit, as far as she could see.

 

Behind her the door shut and latched. She frowned. Since when did Sherlock latch...? He brushed past her – dressing robe hanging lank from his shoulders. She hung back as he returned to his chair – feet kicking through a dissected newspaper.

 

She shifted her feet – feeling useless after only a minute. “Are you hungry? I could fix you... something?” Or not – she'd seen the state of his refrigerator and, other than the random carton of milk and ancient takeaway, it was rare that proper food made its way into the cold case. She was certain that most of his nutrition came from tea and biscuits and the occasional basket of chips.

 

“No, nothing. Not hungry.”

 

Couldn't say that surprised her. Settled against the cushion, he tugged a knitted quilt across his lap. Upstairs, Molly could hear a soft tread – John walking across the floor in stockinged feet. She recognized his movements from when Rosie was younger – the ritual of motion rocking her in his arms as he eased her to sleep.

 

“You're hovering again.”

 

“Sorry...” She slipped from her coat and hung it on the wall hook before returning to sit across from him in John's chair. He hadn't looked at her – eyes turned towards the empty fireplace. She thought, maybe, she could offer to start a fire.

 

“Do you want...”

 

“Just sit... please. Talk to me.”

 

“O-okay.” He looked so sad. So she talked about work. Told him about the new corpses – her autopsies. She talked about her boss and about the new hire; how he'd spilled 4 liters of formaldehyde and forced the lab to shut down for several hours. Sherlock listened – and looked at the fireplace.

 

She'd known Sherlock longer than John – having met him when he'd first started consulting for the Met. He'd been brash and arrogant – unapologetic with his observations no matter how personal. He'd treated everyone like idiots – calling them as much to their face. Sweeping into the mortuary with that long coat of his – scarf knotted around his neck – soft curls framing that breathtaking face – strange blue eyes and cheekbones... God, she'd been smitten.

 

The first words she'd ever spoken to him, staring at him over a fresh corpse on her slab, had been a stammer. His ice stare was tremendously unnerving and she'd been certain he could see every secret she'd had – no matter how well hidden. It had been humiliating – he'd even asked her if there were a more articulate assistant available to examine his victim. But then she'd pulled herself together, shut out his pale skin and soft hair and, God, those eyes... and had begun explaining the method of death. He'd listened. Properly listened to her. And then... he'd smiled. _“Oh... Molly Hooper, you are a gem...”_ She'd never forgotten those words. She'd hung the next decade of her life around those tiny moments when he'd say something kind. Anything kind.

 

Even when it was fake.

 

It had been okay, too. She'd been okay with the rare smiles – rarer moments when they were genuine. She'd always recognized the difference but she'd always done as he'd asked. She'd thought it would be enough for her. And then he'd committed suicide off the roof of Barts.

 

After his return... after Tom and little Rosie... after Mary... He'd been different with her. No, it had started before that. In a darkened lab, when he'd come to her, and told her he'd needed her.

 

Like he needed her, now.

 

Mrs. Hudson arrived with tea and a plate of small cakes. She said nothing as she set down the tray and poured two cups. Barring the turn of the latch, coming and going, her exit was just as silent.

 

Sherlock didn't touch his cup. Molly fell quiet as she sipped hers. Upstairs, John had stopped moving. Likely asleep. Outside, rain pebbled against the windows.

 

She held her cup in her hands – letting it warm her fingers. “Sherlock, what happened?”

 

It was like he'd been startled from a daydream – blinking at her as though he hadn't fully known she was there. In those seconds his face was bare of the familiar guarded affect. He looked... broken. “Sherlock?” She leaned towards him and, Sherlock... cringed.

 

Mrs. Hudson's evasive words came back to her an a flash bang – _“...I can't tell you. It would destroy him if he realized that I...”_

 

Everything within her twisted into a knot.

 

“Oh... oh, God... never mind. Please; you don't have to tell me – I didn't... I didn't mean to...” She choked on the words and brought her hand up to her face to scrub away sudden tears – her voice tight and soft. “I'm so sorry...”

 

Sherlock's forehead wrinkled at her stammer of apologies and backtracking – likely confused at the sudden shift in her voice... But then he knew. She could see the moment when he knew. His eyes widened before he swallowed hard. It broke her heart.

 

“H...how...” He shut his eyes – fingertips pressing together in front of his face, “how did... how did you... know...?”

 

She sniffed – her throat thick with sorrow.

 

“I recognized the look on your face...”

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

He'd never hid himself from her. Or, perhaps... he couldn't. She'd always seen right through him – his disguises and bluffs may well have been onion skin for all the good they'd ever done under her gaze.

 

He'd known, nearly from their first meeting, that she was clever. It had taken him years, however, to realize how utterly brilliant she was. He'd played her emotions for his benefit – giving her nothing in return but rude words and dismissal. It had taken him putting his foot in it, one Christmas night, to open his eyes to just how horrid he'd been towards her. Yet, in spite of that, she still cared about him. Loved him. That was something he could never comprehend.

 

She'd wept as he'd told her about his kidnapping and assault. As with John, he hadn't felt the need to cushion any aspects of what had happened. Unlike with John, he wondered... feared... how this would change him, in her eyes. Why that distressed him, however... he didn't know. He feared it just the same.

 

Their tea was cold, by the end; after assuring her that his rapist had been captured and would remain incarcerated for a very, very long time.

 

“I don't understand. I beat him. I won... but...” he shook his head, “I'm still...” he worked his lips around the word, “afraid...”

 

Molly lifted one shoulder; her arms crossed in her lap; hands cupping her elbows. “It takes a long time to start feeling safe again. It takes a long time to start trusting people again.”

 

Sherlock clenched his hands in front of his lips. “It was my fault. I was so focused on the play, crafted just for my benefit, that I didn't see the monster sitting right beside me.”

 

Her hand brushed his fists, then; easing his hands back down to his lap. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

 

He pulled away from her – unwilling to accept that his world had become so uncontrollable. “Please. I did everything wrong. Everything that happened had been put into motion by me. There are no words that can repair this, Molly. There are no pointless assurances nor greeting card comforts that can erase this. It is my fault. The only avenue open to me is acceptance of that fact.”

 

Withdrawing back into her chair, Molly chewed at her lip. After a moment, her eyes downcast, she nodded.

 

“You seem to see everything. It's remarkable – really. Like magic, almost.”

 

He scoffed – eyes trailing back to the cold fireplace.

 

Molly tightened her hands around her hem – staring down at the frayed rug. “I know... it isn't magic. You just see... I mean, you know where to look... where other people don't... can't...”

 

“Oh, Molly, do get on...” He muttered – irritation blooming fast, as it often did, lately.

 

“You don't see me.” She cut in – finally lifting her eyes to meet his. She shrugged one shoulder – tipping her head with the motion. “You don't.”

 

Sherlock dropped his brows a fraction – her words twisting confusion across his features. “Don't be absurd; of course I see you.”

 

She shook her head. “You think you do but you don't – not really.” She fiddled with her sleeves – blunt nails tugging at the loose weave of her jumper. “You see me... you see me like everyone sees me. Awkward Molly – silly Molly – poor, desperate, Molly...”

 

He frowned deeper. “Molly, I don't...”

 

She smiled – though it was only a flash before slipping away. “No... you're kinder, now. But, still... you don't see... you've never seen...” She dropped her eyes.

 

_"You can't see it can you?"_

 

Facing her head on, now, Sherlock... looked.

 

Long hair, clean, swept from her shoulders with a simple black elastic. Bulky jumper – no, not bulky – oversized... as were most of her tops. Plain, tan slacks in need of pressing – wide leg – flat shoes... He shifted attention to her face... barely made up – no lipstick today – eyelashes a darker brown than her natural color... He closed his eyes – pressing his fingers against his lips. Surface... it was all surface... He rapidly wiped his hand through the air – scattering the gathered facts.

 

Dating status – unattached. Previous attachments; Jim (his shoulders stiffened – something heavy filling his gut – knowing she'd had even a brief contact with Moriarty) and Tom – her temporary fiance. Throughout it all, her affection for him had hardly wavered...

 

_Still surface. Emotions are symptoms – look deeper..._

 

What was...? No.

 

Ask _why_ – not what.

 

 _Why did she dress in that manner?_ Clearly she'd wanted to draw his eye – red lipstick – change of hairstyle... but those were subtle adjustments. A woman seeking to impress a potential mate tended towards fitted garments – clothing meant to accentuate legs and breasts ( _or no clothing at all..._ ) Sherlock shook his head back and forth – clearing away the old memory. The only time Molly had worn anything revealing had been her dress at that same Christmas, years ago, where he'd eviscerated her before her closest friends. Oversized jumpers, ill-fitted shirts, long skirts, heavy slacks, at times multiple layers; ill-fitted coat over ill-fitted cardigan over ill-fitted blouse... _hiding_... Could be unhappiness with her body, though she was clearly fit – could be her profession working with the dead – not wishing to damage good clothes with bodily fluids...

 

Shy. Quiet. Awkward humor – always apologizing; how rarely he saw her smile not tinged with remorse – as though she were imposing her emotions upon others unintentionally; and with regret. She craved affection – thriving on the smallest gestures... even the manipulations he'd exchanged for her assistance. Molly was clever. She'd have known it for what it was yet never once had she denied him. Never once had she called it out. She... appeased. She deflected. She made others more comfortable than herself. Was it purely sweetness of nature? Kindness?

 

She didn't often initiate physical contact. Had she ever initiated contact? When it wasn't medical and slapping him didn't really count, did it?

 

“ _You don't see. You've never seen.”_

 

She could have chosen any field of medicine but she'd chosen the mortuary. Hidden away in the basement of Barts – her companions the dead. She didn't have to deal with the living save her few coworkers and her immediate supervisor. And the occasional consulting detective. Alone, hidden, shy; drawn to a man who, whether part of his pretense or truth, had appeared to be gay – followed by a man who had been even more shy and awkward than herself and nowhere near her equal. And... through it all... she'd cared for a man who had offered her no indication that he was even capable of either romantic love or sexual intimacy...

 

“ _I recognized the look on your face...”_

 

The rush that came with that sudden connection, from veins to brain; that spark that leaped past the stringing of clues and delved into pure intuition. Deduction – the most potent and addictive drug imaginable... It was like an infection, now. Sherlock squeezed tight his eyes – turning his head as _knowing_ washed over him – flinching back from the hovering specter of _TRUTH_ – as he sucked in a single, staggered, breath. _Oh God..._

 

When his eyes opened again – it was to take in her face. To see... _her_. His voice was a hollow whisper.

 

“Who?”

 

Molly's arms had wrapped round her middle – her eyes downturned – focused on her knees. Her shrug was small – apologetic. “I don't know. I... I never saw... his face.” She licked her lips – her thumb nail scraping across the cuticles on her other hand. “I, uh, I was... twenty-one.” She smiled – something tight and painful. “My dad had been struggling for about four months. He'd been on oxygen but it was still hard – could barely catch a breath, most of the time.” Stopping the massacre of her fingers, her hand rose to her lips, instead – pressing, for a moment, across her mouth. “I'd barely left the house. Only going out for groceries or to attend Uni. He... wanted me to get out of the house more. Said I was too young to be sitting... sitting around with a moody old man.” Her smile was full of memory – her eyes lifted to the far corner of the room. From the line of sight he knew that her eyes had settled on his violin case – left resting at the base the music stand. “I hadn't been out in ages. Used to go out to the clubs quite a lot – can you believe that?”

 

Sherlock said nothing.

 

“So I rang up one of my girlfriends. She...” Molly dipped her chin. “Huh... I don't even remember her name...” Her study returned to her fingers – thumb nail dragging across her skin like a blunt file. “We split up, after we got to the club. She saw someone she knew – went off to see them. I thought I'd have a drink. Just one drink...” Her thumb dug deeper – her skin flushing pink under the pressure. “I didn't plan to stay so long. But... I couldn't... I couldn't bear going back. Not then.” She tilted her head away – just for a moment, before moving unfocused study back on her hands. “I just wanted one night that wasn't...” She fumbled.

 

“That wasn't about your dying father.” Sherlock replied – voice low.

 

She nodded, brushing back a tear before catching her ponytail in her hands – pulling at the tips of her hair; her hands fisted close to her throat. “Before I realized it was nearly two. I do remember I'd only had a few drinks – couple beers and some... sort of fruit... thing...” Her brows pushed together in trying to sharpen the memory. Then she shook her head. “But... after a bit I just... wanted to go home. I...” She suddenly chuckled but her eyes were sad. “I can remember thinking... so clearly... God, this is the worst night of my life.”

 

Her silence stretched longer, then. Muted sounds beyond the window couldn't touch the pounding throb of blood thudding within his brain. Her fingers dropped from her hair to resume worrying at the pilled surface of her jumper.

 

“I left alone. No idea where my best mate was. Guess... she wasn't much of a best mate, really. Only saw her once, after that night. Stopped by the house to say she was sorry and then, just... left.”

 

“Molly, you don't...”

 

“I do.” She lifted her eyes – shadowed – bright with unfallen tears and red in the hollows. “I... I have to...”

 

He nodded. There were no other words to say, after that, but the ones she spoke.

 

“I left the pub and got a cab right off. I remember... I remember walking towards it... And I don't... I don't remember a lot... after... except...” a tear blinked from her lower lashes – skipping from her cheek to pat on the back of her hand. “Somehow I was in a park... in the dirt and leaves and trash... and h-he... he-he was... on me...” she sniffed – blinking more drops and swallowing hard. Her mouth opened but then shut again – head shaking. “I should have stayed home. My father was dying and I should... I sh-should...”

 

His hands were unsteady and he clenched them, tight, before leaning towards her, his fingers stopping within inches of hers. “Molly, it wasn't your fault.”

 

She nodded, rapidly, sniffed back further tears and scrubbed a hand against her eyes. “I know – _I know_... My doctor told me that. My therapist. She told me that every time I saw her – till I started agreeing with her.”

 

“Your father?”

 

Molly shook her head. “I never told him. I co... I just couldn't.” Red eyes lifted to his – her lips biting together. “He never had to know. But...” She swallowed. “But sometimes... I wish... he had. I wish I could have just... been brave enough. But I was so afraid he'd feel it was his fault. That because he'd sent me out to have fun that it was his fault – and I couldn't bear that.” She swiped her eyes again. “But sometimes I... I just wanted him to hold me... you know? To tell me it was going to be okay...” She sniffled, one hand now covering her mouth as she collected herself.

 

Eventually composure was won, though her eyes were still damp. “You said it wasn't my fault.”

 

He nodded.

 

Reaching her hands out – Molly took his fingers in a light grip – gentle. He saw, then, that they both were shaking. “But Sherlock, don't you see...?”

 

His brows pressed into a line – head tipping just a bit.

 

“It wasn't your fault either.”

 

His head turned away so she squeezed her grip, just enough to pull his attention back to her. “Sherlock, you need to hear this. It. Wasn't. Your. Fault.”

 

He clenched his teeth – head sinking towards their joined hands. Without his control, a sudden, sharp, sob tore from him.

 

Molly was in front of his chair in an instant – her hands pulling away from his only for her arms to wrap around his shoulders. Tears dripped from his nose and chin. After a few seconds his arms circled her waist – his head pulled against her breasts. Her fingers stroked through his hair in a slow caress – her voice soothing in that it contained no attempt to make it better – only repeating that she wasn't leaving him... that she was there as long as he needed... would give him whatever he needed.

 

“ _Tell me what you need...”_

 

He tightened his grip. “You.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally!! FINALLY I have another chapter! For reasons unknown this one took an eternity compared to previous chapters. I had initially planned for it to be the final chapter, but the characters insisted otherwise. And I have to agree with them. So, instead, we'll have yet one more to go after this!! As always, thank you to everyone sticking with this story! And special thanks to those who've left kudos and reviews! They are the life that keeps me writing!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [](https://postimages.org/)  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special trigger warning for this chapter: non-graphic but still triggery rape descriptions, mentions of suicide, and drugs.

By the following Wednesday, Richard Brunton had been apprehended along with the cousin who'd been aiding him in evading the police. Sherlock had been allowed in on the interrogation. Three hours later, Brunton gave up the location of his employer, Carlotta Magnussen. Three weeks after, a joint task force smashed open the hotel door, in Chisinau, where she'd been living under an assumed name.

 

Within forty-eight hours she was squirreled away to an M16 bunker to await her final fate.

 

None of the three conspirators were likely to see the light of day for the next several decades.

 

A sigh of relief, then. Nothing left but to place a period at the end of the sentence and go on with life in whatever jolly fashion best suited.

 

After all, it was over.

 

 

◦

 

 

 

 

John Watson had been waiting, outside those cold, intimidating doors, for over two hours. Busy. Or, so he'd claimed. Just as he'd been claiming for the past week. Avoiding a nutting far more likely and probably wise.

 

Previously occupied with Sherlock, as well as his daughter, John hadn't had time to spare for long hours waiting on Mycroft. And Mycroft had, obviously, made every attempt to be unavailable for the “pointless little sit down”, as he'd put it. Well, this time John wasn't going to be put off. He'd bunk on the floor if that's what it took, but Mycroft was going to answer for what had been brought to light, back at the prison.

 

“ _You watched your brother being beaten for half an hour during his extraction from Serbia...”_

 

Sherlock had never been terribly forthcoming about his two year absence. While the man could gab endlessly about the properties and nuances in gunpowder, tea, cultural preservation methods of the deceased, and pot noodles, often all in one sitting, he was notably reticent when it came to his solitary ventures abroad. And those few details he had let slip... well, John had developed quite a necessary skin of skepticism when it came to anything pouring from Sherlock's mouth. Fool him once, as the saying went, shame on them. Fool him a dozen times whilst employing entirely believable tears and mucus... well... John had never been above a good thrashing when the deed warranted retribution and Sherlock's nose had been bloodied enough times one would think the lesson learned. If only poking the bear wasn't such an irresistible and immediate high – bloody berk.

 

“Mr. Watson?” John looked up from his concentrated examination of the polished floor. Anthea stood near the large doors – mobile in one hand though her attention, amazingly, wasn't focused on the device. Exclusively. For about thirteen seconds.

 

“Mr. Holmes will see you now.”

 

“About bloody time.” Heaving up from the cushy settee, John followed her gesturing fingers towards the double doors – which opened, upon his approach. A slender, blank-faced operative allowed John to pass through before exiting the room – closing the door at his back. No doubt he would remain on the other side until John's business was concluded.

 

He'd been to this room exactly once before. Steel colored walls, concrete floors, brushed chrome desk and chair... aaall very intimidating.

 

John, was not, intimidated. If anything it made him imagine a very small dog defending its territory by a great deal of barking and over-inflated presence. In better times, he and Sherlock had giggled themselves to tears imagining Mycroft yapping while hunched over a platter of cake.

 

“Mr. Watson. Please; sit.” Mycroft, already seated at his desk, kept his fingers steepled in front of his face. It was rare and nigh jarring how much he looked like his brother for a span of several moments. So unalike...

 

“We'll dispense with pleasantries – I'd hate to waste a cup of darjeeling over the sentimental, and I have a limited timeframe to revisit the pointless.”

 

Ah... but there were similarities, also. John cleared his throat – rocking forward in the stiff chair. Interrogation technique in its simplest form – place the suspect in an uncomfortable chair and leave him just the tiniest bit off-center. Given the circumstances, they should really change places.

 

John smiled. “Right, then. After all, I get the sense there'll be nothing pleasant about this, will there be?”

 

Mycroft tipped his head – his smile back a tight lipped affair. “True. So... the floor is yours, doctor. Ask away.”

 

John folded his hands across his belly – staring at Mycroft until the other man sighed, shifted in his ergonomic padded leather chair, and dropped his eyes.

 

“Tell me about Serbia.”

 

 

◦

 

 

 

Christmas had breezed by with hardly a bell rung to acknowledge its passing. Molly and Mrs. Hudson had done their best to bring some sort of cheer to the flat with cookies and lights and a few gifts shared out among the five of them. They'd insisted it was for Rosie and Sherlock had softened his scowl at the reminder. He would not burden a toddler with his black mood and had, thusly, resorted to a well practiced method of smiling and chatting and giving good cheer. Specifically; hiding in plain sight.

 

He missed the days when that had actually worked on people.

 

Well, it had still worked on Rosie. But, then, he hadn't had to pretend, with her.

 

The new year had gone past with less acknowledgment than the holidays. Well through with the season of atrocious sweaters, false camaraderie, and an excess of roasted fowl, Sherlock had been climbing the walls with repressed energy. John had taken to stowing his sidearm – as if Sherlock hadn't known every crawlspace, cupboard, and floorboard wherein the weapon had been hidden, before. Though, since Rosie, he'd tempered his need for assaulting the walls by employing a plastic dart gun, instead. Not nearly as satisfactory, truth to say, and the little round suckers never managed a proper seal before allowing the dart to bounce along the floor. Granted, an investigation into the problem had led to several hours of modification to the original device. To start with, a more powerful spring was required – easily harvested from John's torch. The secondary problem was the construction of the gun, itself. A weighted device would allow for stabilization and, thusly, better aim. Quickly deciding to scrap the original model, Sherlock had set to assembling a new dart gun using the body of John's torch – no longer of any use as a light source with the spring removed – as well as some flexible tubing, compressed air, a larger rubber cup (salvaged from one of Mrs. Hudson's hideous window ornaments), and a heavy metal pen for the shaft.

 

A few test shots, a little calibration, he aimed at the wall, and fired.

 

“HA!” The dart stuck fast – centered on the smiling face like a slender nose. After another moment, however, it dropped to the floor. Heaving out a long breath, Sherlock slammed the makeshift gun to the mantle and approached the wall; bending at the waist to sweep the dart from the nest of crumpled papers and breeding dust bunnies. Straightening, grasping the dart with two fingers, he slid his other hand across the roundish dent left behind in the plaster. Hm... well... progress often required sacrifice...

 

He rolled the metal shaft between his fingers.

 

Dust motes lifted through the banner of light slipping between the ill drawn drapes. He lifted his hand, again, tracing the light where it touched against the wallpaper. Where the light warmed his fingers, they paled to gold.

 

In seconds the gold was gone – a bank of heavy clouds dropping the room into shadow.

 

“ _You're shaking. I'm shaking too. I've... I've wanted you... sooo looong... Oh, God, I've wanted you...”_

 

Sherlock yanked back his hand – barely noting the loss of the dart through his fingers. He gulped – hands clawing into his hair, curling into fists, pulling...

 

His heels clambered back away from the wall – slipping through detritus and missing, by centimeters, the corner of the coffee table. He battled to pull his breathing into a regulated respiration. But it pumped his lungs like bellows – blood thrumming with a cocktail of adrenaline and cortisol that shook his hands with a force not unlike a seizure.

 

He held them away from his body – and was left with nothing to scrape away the ribbons of wet that dashed down his cheeks.

 

Too cold for the sweat that gathered beneath his tangled curls; freezing... God, he was freezing to death...

 

_Oily drops trickled from his hairline – sliding, unimpeded, down the crease of his spine._

 

_They felt hard as iron – the fingertips pressing into his flesh – damaging blood vessels to leave bright bruises where the manicured nails dug in deep._

 

_The chains had a rhythm to their rattle – an ebb and flow that rocked the manacles clasped round his wrists – blood shedding, here, too... slithering down his bare arms._

 

“ _It was hard to stay away... God... y-you know what ad-diction is like... But I... oh... I couldn't risk... risk you seeing a pattern... I couldn't risk... how often I stopped into the deli... or... o-or... God... or just... haha... walked past your flat...”_

 

_Tears spattered down his cheeks – pattering on the floor and lost among the drops of blood._

 

_He strangled back a thick noise only to lose himself in the next breath._

 

“ _Please – please stop – please! It hurts...!”_

 

“ _Please...” He sobbed – trembling shoulders rattling a new cadence to the chains. He felt it – that moment when rationale lost against the terror. When hope had its final gasp before tugging beneath the waves. When he was no longer the man that he'd once been – capable, clever, larger than life... In that moment, he no longer saw himself as Sherlock Holmes – righter of wrongs – game master – bane to the underworld. He saw a child... lost in the dark with the monsters closing in... and nobody left to save him._

 

_And he broke._

 

“ _Please! Please help me! Please, I can't... I can't... **John! Help me!”**_

 

The door to the flat slammed against the wall and bounced back as Sherlock tore down the stairs. Feet clad only in house slippers – dressing robe hidden beneath his coat – he caught a cab outside his flat and gave him a single address; a sweat damp wad of notes clutched in his trembling fingers.

 

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

 

Not a sound from above. Rosie had been sleeping when he'd checked in on Mrs. Hudson and the older woman had been more than happy to let her be. Promising to stop back down for tea, later, John made for the staircase. A plastic sack hung from his fingertips. Knowing, full well, that Sherlock would probably see right through the subterfuge, John still hoped to stave off suspicion of his whereabouts with the excuse of supplies. They had been low on milk so it wasn't so far off from the truth.

 

Mycroft's reveal of the events in Serbia were a cement cloak weighing his shoulders. Until Sherlock's recent abduction, John hadn't seen him in any state of undress. Sherlock had never been particularly guarded about his body – just as prone, as most men, to spending the lazy morning in little more than his dressing robe and pants. John was grateful when he'd opt for that much – given that unforgettable visit to Buckingham Palace. No, Sherlock wasn't shy. And he wasn't one to heed convention; particularly if he were in a snit. That had all changed, however, by the time John had moved back to the flat along with Rosie. Having a child around had meant for some drastic changes. Body parts now, whenever possible, had a separate refrigeration unit. Outlets were covered with child-proof caps, experiments were never to be left out, if at all possible, and volatile substances were to be used only when Rosie was out of the flat. Additionally, there was to be no prancing about in just one's undergarments. It was a mixed success with most things but the one Sherlock had heeded to the letter was in keeping himself covered. Little wonder that John had, not once, caught sight of the scars until that horrible moment when they'd found Sherlock trussed up at Appledore. And, at that time, he'd been more focused on the fresh injuries as well as the horrifying realization that had followed.

 

Even with Mycroft's explanation of keeping a low profile, however, he could not understand how he could have simply sat there while...

 

The door wasn't quite shut when he reached the landing. Sherlock had been keeping the door latched ever since... that night.

 

Silent, now, John rested the bag up against the wall – feeling the absence of his weapon as a dry catch in his throat. Well he'd managed the odd, unarmed conflict, a time or twenty and his fists were at the ready for whatever was beyond that strip of light falling past the threshold.

 

Keeping his body low and compact, he slipped to the opposite side of the opening – nudging it wide with the toe of his loafer. Through the widened space he could see Sherlock sitting in his usual spot next to the fireplace. Dropping his hands half in relief, half in aggravation, John fetched his purchases and took a more relaxed stride into the room; swinging one arm back to nudge the door fully shut.

 

“Got the milk.” He warily opened the refrigerator; the habit built on long years finding everything from limbs to whole heads lurking amongst the cold cuts and, oftentimes, fresher than the food.

 

Nothing today, however, and he put away the milk along with a package of eggs and a small jar of the marmalade Sherlock liked. “Want me to put the kettle on?”

 

No sound. No movement. John leaned away from the counter to look back towards the sitting room and his silent friend. “Sherlock?”

 

Still nothing. Leaving the kettle half filled with water, John headed towards his chair – stopping in front of it and finally taking in the state of his friend. Sherlock looked awful. Haggard – elbows on knees.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

None of the expected rebuttal – no pointing out the ludicrous nature of the question when the answer should have been apparent at a glance. So silent he could hear the soft crunch of rug fibers beneath his heels.

 

Sherlock didn't raise his head; didn't speak. Instead, he delved into the left pocket of his dressing robe, lifted out something wrapped in black cloth, and held it out in his hand.

 

It was a syringe. And it was full.

 

“Two years.” Sherlock's deep voice dropped his words like round stones thumping into sand. He made no move as John silently and carefully lifted the syringe from his fingers. In its absence, he allowed them to hang slack.

 

“I've been clean for two years.” His voice was soft – rasping near whisper. “I was tempted, during that time – of course I was. But I never allowed it to go beyond want. I could not... I could not bear to do so. I could not bear the disappointment... that I would cause to you.” He shuddered – face twisting before he pushed his hands against his eyes.

 

John sat – tucking the syringe inside a cloth handkerchief before burying it, out of sight, in his coat pocket. He waited; knowing better than to speak.

 

Control wrested back at the cost of his shaking hands, Sherlock sniffed – rubbing a knuckle beneath his nose before turning his damp face towards the cold fireplace.

 

“Heroin cut with fentanyl and enough of a dose to ensure death or, at the very least, irreversible brain damage.” Which, with Sherlock's living will, would still mean death.

 

The glacier that pushed through John's chest chilled him such that he wondered that his breath didn't expel in a cloud of frost. “Oh, Jesus...” His eyes shuttered – shoulders hunching forward in a violent tremor from neck to hips. “Jesus Christ...” No. He couldn't conceive of that. Not again – not again... Watching his form drop like a broken bird; coat billowing its shattered wings; falling...

 

Knowing the truth didn't erase that nightmare. Even now – even still – he saw it on those nights when the demons came out to play. Saw the finality of Sherlock's body splitting open on the pavement. Of blood – dark to nearly black – spreading to fill the cracks – beaded down his cheek and pooling near one open eye. Two years thinking him truly gone – the first few months with a gun to his head. Sometimes, literally – finger teasing across the trigger. Knowing how easy it would be... to follow him on one more grand adventure... and then mocking himself for being dramatic. Only it was never his voice... all snobby and deep... _“Don't be stupid, John. The afterlife is a construct created to comfort the weak-minded. One could sooner conduct an orchestra on the ocean floor than to engage an invisible, magical being whose sole act appears to have been to set this planet, filled with an excess of idiots, spinning through the universe.”_

 

And, yet... how many times, since John had met Sherlock, had his prayers for a miracle been answered? Wasn't the answer, to another, resting in his pocket rather then jammed into his best friend's arm?

 

“I'm not a good person... but I've tried. You... and Mary... Greg, Molly, Rosie... you've all... given me the template for what it is to be better. But I am aware of my faults – I know there are things in my nature that are unchangeable and that some of those things make me a target for retribution whether it be fists or a bullet.” Sherlock's hands clenched in front of his lips – tears scattering from his cheekbones in rapid drops. “But I...” He gasped heavy breaths and shook his head. “I did not deserve... _THIS!”_ He sucked in a congested breath before flattening both hands over his face; shielding behind the trembling barrier. It was only for a moment before he lifted his head; face anguished. “How-how could he do this to me? What sort of... _beast_... could hurt someone this way? Better to have cut me in two... because this... this... pain...” He stifled a wail – bending at the waist to wrap his arms around his middle; voice slowly lost to its wobbling pitch. “I do not know... how to _bear it_...”

 

There were no words that could provide answer – nor assurances that could provide comfort. John reached out a hand – slow – allowing Sherlock the moment to back away – should he need the space.

 

Instead, he sniffed; reaching back to clasp John about the arm; holding tight while his other hand fisted on his knee. Gentle fingers extended, John rested them on the back of Sherlock's neck. They remained that way; and let the clock track the minutes without them.

 

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

It had been three days since the _incident_. Sherlock hadn't been left alone to so much as use the loo – John insisting on a “no shut doors” policy.

 

4 to 8pm had been Molly's time while John saw to Rosie – fed her dinner, had play time, and put her to bed. His shame at keeping father from child was a familiar twist of the knife.

 

Tonight, however, it was not Molly who had come to the flat. “Here to offer me another cigarette?”

 

“Oh, I think we're far past cigarette's, don't you?” His elder brother, as was his nature, took stock of the flat before stepping inside; no doubt eyeing the space for grenades.

 

Pulling his robe tight around his middle, Sherlock frowned into his empty teacup as he sat. “What sort of coercion did John employ to bring this about, I wonder? You always do fold for blackmail.”

 

Mycroft, thick-skinned as ever, merely hung his coat and dusted off a spot on the couch. “Brother mine. What need is there, of coercion, when I am more than willing to don the role of caretaker in your hour of need?”

 

Side-eyeing his brother, from his slumped resting place in his chair, Sherlock shifted until he could tuck his feet beneath himself. “Perhaps I am not the only one needing to piss in a cup. Sentiment, Mycroft? How human of you.”

 

As expected, Mycroft rolled his eyes. “No need to be offensive.”

 

There was silence, then. The tip of his umbrella sorting though the various bits of flotsam and jetsam occupying the rug, Mycroft seemed perfectly content to play gatekeeper. No doubt treading the manicured halls of his mental space to alleviate the tedium.

 

Sherlock hadn't been through the soft white halls of his own mind for... a long time. He feared what he may find there. If only the occupants of his mind palace were as reluctant to wander free.

 

“Oh Sherlock... how low you've sunk to let big bro babysit.” Moriarty scrunched his nose – rearing back to tap a finger against his jaw. “Well that was rather alliterative.”

 

Sighing, Sherlock turned away from the not presence that was doing everything possible to remain present.

 

“Don't you just miss the good ole' days when you were leaping from rooftops and getting shot? No wonder you're ready to do it for real. This moping around business is _BORING_!”

 

Shoving out of his chair, Sherlock slammed the sliding door aside as he moved through the kitchen.

 

“Sherlock, where are you off to?” Mycroft had stood, now, as well – taking several steps after his brother.

 

“I need to use the loo. Care to watch?”

 

Sherlock could practically feel the grimace flitting across his brother's face. “Well you've not left us much of a choice, now have you?”

 

True. At the very least he could torture Mycroft's sensibilities. He made certain to linger.

 

Afterwards, washing up at the sink, he studied Mycroft's uneasy attention.

 

“What ails you? Too long making use of private facilities that you quail at seeing another man urinate?” Harsher, perhaps, than he'd intended but there was no regret for having spoken.

 

Brushing back into the kitchen, Sherlock pulled the tea kettle towards himself – dumping the stale water before refilling from the tap.

 

“Tea? Regretfully I cannot offer anything more potent as Mrs. Hudson appears to have made off with all of the booze.”

 

“Tea is fine.”

 

More silence followed as the water heated. Sherlock faced the sink – hands planted on the countertop while Mycroft stood at his back – umbrella tip making a light tap against the floor.

 

Neither spoke as the water bubbled – coming to a slow boil. Sherlock added two bags of tea and allowed them to soak. Lifting down the tray from the upper cabinet, he gathered two cups, a saucer of milk, sugar, and a sleeve of biscuits. He was meticulous in his preparation.

 

Preceding his brother back into the sitting room, Sherlock rested the tea tray on the side table before filling both cups. “Still three spoons?”

 

“Just one, thank you. I'm cutting back on my sugar.” He accepted the cup and took a sip.

 

When Sherlock gave no response, to that, Mycroft rested the cup in its saucer. “Unlike you not to press the advantage with a clear opening.”

 

Sherlock shrugged, tipping his own cup back. “Unlike you to so readily provide such an obvious opening. Don't tell me you've found religion.”

 

The expected smirk didn't so much as curl Mycroft's lip. Rather, he took a particularly long swallow of tea; his face stiff and eyes turned away.

 

“Guilt is not an attractive quality on you, brother.”

 

Mycroft blinked as he looked up from his cup. “What are you babbling about? I feel guilt over noth...”

 

“Did you somehow believe I would have been unaware of your involvement in my abduction? Please. I may be damaged, Mycroft, but my ability to observe is untainted.”

 

Mycroft held his stare – brother to brother across five feet of space. “I'm...” He swallowed; fingers curling tight over the teacup handle; until it threatened to snap from the base. “Sherlock I... I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.” He whispered.

 

Sherlock felt something rise up in his chest – the familial need to shove away the sentiment and mock his brother for the nigh impossible sheen of moisture across his eyes. How dare Mycroft cry? Mycroft hadn't wept since he was five years old when Nana Holmes had died! How dare he shed tears now?

 

His heart was hammering and he didn't know why.

 

Teacup clacking against the table with rattling force, he pushed from his chair and returned to the kitchen – shoving items into the cabinet with no thought for order. Mycroft, for his part, hadn't moved from John's chair; back ever stiff as he held himself at the edge of the cushion.

 

With nothing left to remove from the countertop, Sherlock fell back on a more familiar distraction. Passing his brother, he stopped at the music stand – bending to collect the battered black case that held the beautiful Stradivarius gifted to him by their sister.

 

A few strings plucked, a few knobs turned, and he allowed the notes to flow in whatever shape they chose.

 

The music rose away from the instrument – the only color in the room that had been cast in shades of grey. The pace adagio – lingering where the original composition was meant to soar. Not even Moriarty spoke while he played – the monster from his wardrobe keeping his peace where he leaned against the window.

 

The tea was long cold by his last, shivering, note. His bow swept its movement from the strings – falling slow to his side as his focus remained beyond the pane of glass before him.

 

“Bach. Partita number two, if I'm not mistaken. Unusual composition.”

 

Sherlock breathed a moment before returning the instrument to its case. “She had told me I didn't understand it. Bach.” Moving the case up against the wall and out of the way, he resumed his study of London – made gold with the waning sun. “I believe I'm beginning to.”

 

Mycroft, too, set aside his teacup and stood – measured steps taking him to the window to stand alongside his brother.

 

“Sherlock I...” His jaw moved without sound for a moment. Throat clearing, he shook his head. “I owe you... a debt... that were I to have a lifetime to pay it would never be fulfilled. I had believed the threat to be minimal. I had believed that Carlotta Magnussen would be a simple apprehension and that I need not inform you of her obsession with vengeance.”

 

Sherlock's fingertips flattened against the pane; grey blue eyes reflecting back and stripped of life.

 

Mycroft brushed a hand alongside his nose – seeming astounded by the wet that had collected there. “I... hurt you. In my arrogance, I placed you squarely in her hands; and into the hands of a sadistic monster.” He shuddered through a breath. “And I cannot offer an apology that will erase this... shame. What I have done is reprehensible and I can only... beg... that you...”

 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft.

 

Stiff at the sudden contact; still wracked with emotions so foreign to him that he could barely stumble them past his lips, Mycroft remained frozen for nearly a minute. But then, allowing his umbrella to thump to the floor, he returned the embrace – weaving his hand into Sherlock's curls and pulling his head against his shoulder – as he'd done when they were children.

 

He felt the tremor in Sherlock's frame – felt the tears where they wet through his jacket. But he only rubbed his hand against the narrow back and said nothing.

 

Because, in that moment, he had said everything.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gracious Lord, this story!! Is there an end? I apparently have no clue. It was supposed to reach its end two chapters ago but - bless these lads - they still have a good deal more to work through, apparently. So, here we go again - another chapter - and the uncertainty of how many more remain! Could be one - could be three - to toss in a rhyme, we'll just wait and see! LOL!

Flashing lights – purple haze.

 

The evening crowd was subdued; nursing their beers or talking in small groups. Few had taken advantage of the dance floor – though the music was loud and the night young.

 

Sherlock was an overlooked shadow in a darkened booth. Soft curls tucked beneath a knit cap – signature coat exchanged for a green jumper and black denim jacket – he blended with the rest of the crowd wearing variations of the same.

 

A week of investigations had brought him, here. Oh, he'd found his man within a day of seeking him; compared to his two years spent breaking down Moriarty's network, this had been child's play. The week that followed had introduced the local community to a dozen nondescript characters. A club owner had interviewed a bouncer for a possible graveyard shift. While he hadn't hired him, he'd shown impressive fighting skills despite his narrow frame. The track marks on his arms, however, had been a deal breaker. A clerk at an off-license had chatted up a shopper who'd been looking for a particular brand of mescal. Turned out he'd been friends with her cousin, back in Uni, and had been thinking of looking him up. A cabbie, picking up a fare outside of the park, clutching a wine bottle in a paper bag, had been more than willing to detail the dangers inherent in hanging out with the lowlifes that frequented that area.

 

All of them had spoken freely with these strangers – sensing nothing but what they were meant to sense. A former addict who'd battled to overcome his past. A brash college alum who couldn't wait to connect with his old crowd and howl at the moon, and, a shy, well-meaning young man, far from home, who was in desperate need of some kindness. All of them had come away from their encounters with vague memories of a lithe frame, oddly pale eyes, and a deep voice. None of them, even looking at a photo, would have known that they had all met the same man; the world's only consulting detective, the famous Sherlock Holmes.

 

His mobile vibrated a text against his leg but he made no move to pull it free. John. Again. Though a month had passed since his crisis, John had rarely allowed him more than an hour unsupervised. His patience had thinned to breaking – at times breaking completely. Perhaps raising a toddler had contributed to the patience John had shown him; though John had always been a difficult man to ruffle. Nevertheless the shouting demands for privacy had only been met with quiet agreement with the caveat that John would be just in the other room, _“but behave yourself. I'm preparing lunch for Rosie and I don't need her godfather teaching her words that would get her thrown out of nursery school.”_

 

The booth, he'd chosen, provided a straight line of sight to the front entrance. It was worth the compromise of hard padding and proximity to the gents. He'd timed it perfectly. Half an hour after arriving – Sherlock's presence long forgotten by the patrons and employees, Darrin Bradstreet entered the pub.

 

Average height – heavy build – dark hair. Currently sporting a trimmed beard to hide his softening chin. Too many hours at a desk – too many nights cuddled up to the bar with his favorite lager. He bought it by the case to enjoy on weekends. Unwelcome at three of the establishments near his flat, this was the closest remaining pub which still tolerated his patronage.

 

Before his first drink had been placed before him, Bradstreet had already begun speaking with the woman on his left – his fingers sliding up the back of her arm. Rather than anger or disappointment, at her expected rebuff, Bradstreet only chuckled, as she'd slapped away his hand, and finished his beer; tapping the bar top for another. Every night, for the past week, Bradstreet had carried out the same ritual. Every night, wearing a different, forgettable outfit, Sherlock had sat in wait before he'd arrived. The beer before him, purchased expressly for cover, rested, untouched.

 

At the bar, Bradstreet held his second beer close to his chest – fingers tapping at the rim. Below the edge of the bar, his knee kicked up and down with his toe braced on the rung of the stool. It would be tonight. His agitation had been building steadily. Drinking more, eating less, arguing frequently. A man in desperate need of a fix. Too early, now, to act – Bradstreet would wait until the evening crowd began to thin before moving on his victim. She would be young; early twenties, small stature, and alone. Already, several women fitting his preference had entered the pub and appeared prepared to stay for some time. One of them had chosen a seat at the bar – her hand never moving from her beer bottle and her body half-turned towards the crowd. However, she had been busy with her mobile and her smile indicated the imminent arrival of a friend or lover. The next woman appeared to be the youngest of the three. Short pink hair in a cut that caused her fringe to fall across her eyes, cheeks flushed after downing a number of shots, and smile all teeth as she grinned at her current dance partner. Mild intoxication had left her coordination lacking and the fine sheen of moisture on her forehead suggested a dash to the ladies within the next few minutes. Further indulgences, beyond that point, would be unlikely. The third woman... _Molly_...

 

Sherlock grasped the table edge – keeping himself in the booth while demanding logic resume its course. Hair three inches too long and too dark – nearly black. Her body was of a similar build but her posture was different – more relaxed. She wasn't Molly. And, yet... she was. Or, rather, she was going to be.

 

Well, not on his bloody watch.

 

Bradstreet had spotted her was well and, in that moment, lost all signs of his agitation. Fingers ceased their drumming beat against his glass and his legs stilled. The predator had begun the hunt – waiting for his opportunity to strike. He felt himself invincible. However, there was a different predator amongst the tall grass, this time. And he had no intention of allowing one more person to fall to this creature.

 

Sherlock settled in, and began his own hunt.

 

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

 

Darrin Bradstreet pulled the collar of his jacket up around his ears. February's chill had sunk its way through to his bones – though alcohol had helped, a bit. Not enough, by far, to chase away the cold but he expected things would heat up, soon enough. He remained in the shadow of the pub – focus on the thinned crowd wandering out of the building; in groups, in singles, all heading for home to sleep off the night's indulgences. Most of them hailed cabs – though a few had their own vehicles at the ready. One girl, slim and quiet, appeared to have desire for neither conveyance – choosing to walk. And, no wonder, her flat being a little over a block away. Her steps were unsteady – though they still kept her moving forward.

 

He followed at a pace; hands tucked into the warmth of his jacket pockets. His estimation had been a little bit off, this time; waiting nearly too long and risking she'd leave too early. As it was, she'd used the ladies, first, buying a few more crucial minutes. He'd kept well back. No need to rush as he knew her destination. A lot of years had passed, since his first, awkward efforts. He'd learned a great deal; about the right time – right person – right everything. He wasn't anyone's memory, any more. Now, he took his time. Got to know them – care about them... He took care of his problem – and he didn't make himself a problem for them. Hell, a few he'd even seen afterwards; unable to help himself. He... had to know. A few had ignored him. A few had talked to him – smiled at him. One of them had even given him her number. He still carried it – years later. She had been nice.

 

Her flat was just ahead.

 

One last corner. Her path had begun to veer – utterly sozzled to anyone lookin. But... nobody was lookin.

 

Her flat was on the second level – 203B and across the hall from an elderly woman with about 35 cats. Made the hall stink of piss.

 

She managed the steps well enough – clinging to the bannister the whole way. She paid him no mind as he followed – phone in hand and seemingly consumed by his screen.

 

He waited until she was at her door. Waited while her shaky hands scraped her key across the lock. Waited until the door pushed open and one foot had stepped into the darkened flat.

 

Door half open, her fingers sliding against the wall and seeking the switch; and he charged...

 

...and slammed against flesh and bone; teeth snapping shut on his tongue with the force of a fist hammering into his jaw.

 

 

◦

 

 

 

The woman, Julia Meadows, had her mobile out at his back. The police should arrive within the next five minutes. Plenty of time. Leery, initially, at the strange man approaching her outside of the ladies, it had required a call to a DI Lestrade to assuage her fears about the man asking for her help. As it was, she'd shown an aptitude for the subterfuge – playing the chemically altered victim to perfection and leading the culprit to his own downfall.

 

Sherlock twisted a fistful of Bradstreet's thinning hair – yanking him back to his feet just long enough to smash his forehead against the man's skull. A muffled shout of pain followed with a moderate quantity of blood. If only there were a window close by. Ms. Meadows had been quite firm about keeping her would-be attacker out of her flat and Sherlock suspected that the octogenarian with the feline infestation would not, likely, be amiable to him frog-marching a serial rapist through her sitting room.

 

Though Sherlock had a height advantage, Bradstreet had a muscular bulk that kept his footing, in spite of the ringing skull that last blow would have given him. Twisting in Sherlock's grip, he chopped his hand towards a vulnerable throat. That blow was blocked. The sharp knee to Sherlock's groin, however, was not – and Sherlock grunted and bent double at the gut twisting pain. A hand clawed into his left shoulder – still carrying an ache, deep, towards the bone. The sudden, vicious pressure pushed a gasp past his lips and he just dodged the knee, aiming for his gut, before jabbing his fingers into Bradstreet's throat. Both of them stumbled – Sherlock putting a hand out against the wall to brace himself; the throb in his shoulder nearly equal to the grinding agony in his genitals. Bradstreet, due to the fractious nature of fate, recovered himself first. Fight or flight warred in his eyes, for only seconds. With the flip of a short blade, he gave in to the former.

 

Eyeing the honed length, Sherlock noted the details on reflex. Stainless steel – four and a half inch stiletto blade – black handle with composite grip. Cheap. Sharp. And easily purchased at any one of a hundred sources both locally and via internet. None of the rapes, matching Bradstreet's methodology, had involved the use of a knife. Further; noting his stance and the angle at which he held the blade, Bradstreet revealed his own ignorance in handling the small weapon. Widening his feet and turning his body to the side, Sherlock raised his hands before him.

 

“Murder isn't your game. You haven't the stomach for conflict nor the constitution to take a life. Why else incapacitate your victims? Can't get aroused unless you remove consent? Did you feel clever – using a drug with that handy little side effect of memory loss? Ah, but what if you'd gotten the dosage wrong – even once? You are no chemist. Your two years at university involved more boozing than study. How many times did you stumble into class pissed? The stories abound of your alcoholic binges. So how could a man, incapable of calculating the correct amount of cheap liqueur to prevent making an utter git of himself, possibly concoct the proper balance of ingredients to incapacitate without causing severe injury or death? Pure chance? Unlikely. The universe, despite certain claims, does not tolerate chance. Just as likely you'd find yourself, by chance, an inadvertent serial killer. Or, less plausible, you err with caution in mind and not dose your victims enough – allowing them to remember. So, if you aren't the chemist, who is? Someone you'd trust explicitly; you'd have to in order to carry out your assaults for over a decade with none of your acquaintances aware of your brutal nature. Someone with a knowledge of drug interactions – a user, perhaps, or, more likely, someone in the medical fiel...” Sherlock stiffened. He felt the familiar rush of pieces sliding together- singular elements joining – like cells multiplying in his brain – fusing and growing and dividing and expanding until the whole of his mind rang with the final truth. But it was the shadowing partner to that realization – something he'd once been so skilled at ignoring – packaging – dismissing... that shook the breath from his chest. Emotional cost. How many times must he hurt her?

 

Sweat collected beneath Bradstreet's nose as his eyes took in the long hallways left to right. Reconsidering his options; clearly not accustomed to hand to hand with a fully conscious opponent. Teeth clamped tight, bulging his jaw, he made a single, wild, swipe with the blade.

 

Evading the attack easily, Sherlock glared when Bradstreet took the small opening to bolt. Grinding out a throaty rumble, he pushed off from the wall to give chase.

 

Very little running, had he done, in the past six months. Not enough nutrients to build back his full wind and endurance. However, Bradstreet was an alcoholic and not given to exercise – certainly not in recent years. Sherlock tackled him twenty feet from the flat; knocking aside the blade before slamming Bradstreet's head, this time, against the solid pavement. The blow left a smear of blood across the impact point. Concussion was a certainty. Unfortunate that he'd probably survive it.

 

Thirty seconds later, two patrol cars and a transport van pulled to a stop in front of the flat and close to Sherlock's position. Lifting away from Bradstreet, Sherlock took a step back while the metropolitan police handcuffed the groggy criminal and heaved him up on his trembling legs – holding him while he vomited off the side of the roadway.

 

Lestrade, striding past the beaten criminal with little more than a glance, fished out a cloth handkerchief before holding it out to Sherlock. Forehead wrinkling up at the square of linen dancing in his face, it took Lestrade pointing with two fingers towards his hairline to realize he was bleeding. Sherlock took the handkerchief, with a hum of thanks, and pressed it to the dripping sting.

 

He gave little concern towards the sticky wet soaking through the cloth in his hand. Were the wound severe he'd have been bullied into the back of an ambulance by this point. Rather, he kept a focused eye on Bradstreet as the stumbling lout was escorted into the back of the transport van. Only when the doors were latched did he pull the cloth away from his forehead – giving the soaked surface a passing glance. Well, head wounds always did bleed quite a bit.

 

“Looks like that might need a stitch or two.”

 

Sherlock brushed off the observation. “It's fine. It can wait until I arrive back at Baker Street.”

 

The eye roll at his back was nearly audible. “Yeah, cause I'm sure John'll be thrilled to patch you up as payback for you ditching him.”

 

That gave Sherlock pause as he turned back towards the Detective Inspector. “I did not 'ditch' John. He's caring for his daughter. He's a father, now, Lestrade. Surely that can't have escaped you. I'd have expected such a lapse from Anderson.”

 

Huffing out a breath with a tug of his lips, Lestrade tucked his hands in his pockets. “What I should have done is let him have another go with that little flicky of his before I intervened.”

 

Sherlock pulled his coat collar higher. “That was you intervening, then?”

 

“Well I'm here, ain't I.” Lestrade led the way back to his patrol car – Donovan awaiting him with her arms crossed. There was no trace of warmth, in her eyes, for Sherlock. No, and why would there have been? It was clear she would always carry a livid resentment towards him – exacerbated by his uncouth decision to survive his faked suicide.

 

“Freak.” She nodded her head towards the departing transport van. “Isn't this beneath you? Sherlock Holmes; slumming at smelly little boozers to fit up every bloke that looks at him crossways?”

 

“Sally, shut it.” Lestrade muttered – though without heat. He'd do better trying to hold back a bullet with his bare hands than to dissuade Donovan once she sank her teeth into her personal nemesis.

 

“So, who's next on your list, then? The flashers? The thruffs? Or maybe you'll start going after your own kind. I hear there's a few dosshouses in the area.”

 

Sherlock, allowing less than a glance in her direction, pocketed the bloody handkerchief when he noted that his wound had begun to clot. “Don't be absurd, Sergeant. I've no intention to do all of your work for you.”

 

Mouth snapping shut, Donovan brushed past Sherlock – knocking hard against his left shoulder as she passed. Sherlock squeezed his hand around the bloodied cloth but made no outward reaction.

 

Across from him, Lestrade rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Come on. Let me give you a lift. Sally can ride back with Forbes.”

 

The temptation to decline was undermined by location. It would mean a long walk back to the pub to catch a cab and, then, only if any were still running. Without comment he chose, instead, to take Lestrade up on his offer and slipped into the passenger side seat of the patrol car.

 

The warmth surging from the heating vents shivered away the slight chill. Mobile in hand, Sherlock proceeded to ignore the bumps and rocking of the vehicle as it crossed uneven pavement. Fingertips busily tapping it took several moments to realize Lestrade had been speaking.

 

“Hm? No – I'd prefer to go straight home.”

 

Clearly he'd misheard because the DI grumbled around a curse. “I asked if you were okay.”

 

“Fine. Though I'm certain I'd established that fact earlier.”

 

Minutes passed, then, with a pleasurable silence... until Lestrade cleared his throat preemptive to breaking that peace.

 

“So is this to be a regular thing, now?”

 

Sherlock didn't so much as raise his eyes away from his screen. “You'll need to clarify, Lestrade. I'm brilliant but I'm not, in fact, a mind reader.”

 

“This – you, swanning off alone to chase after dangerous suspects.”

 

That was enough to lower his mobile to his lap – eyes turning towards the DI. “My methods have not altered from the first day you'd met me; are you only now becoming aware of the way in which I work?”

 

Chuckling, though not with humor, Lestrade shook his head. “So I'm really to believe John had to stay home with Rosie?”

 

Not answering, Sherlock turned towards the window. Undeterred, Lestrade continued on. “Sally was right about one thing; this isn't exactly your sort of case. And I don't need to be a genius detective to deduce why this particular criminal would catch your attention.”

 

Silence.

 

Lestrade's fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “Fifteen years ago I was new on the force – young, brash, know-it-all thinking all of my superiors were old fashioned idiots.” Sherlock's lip curved for a brief second, “Was out on patrol with my old partner, Marcus Bell, when we got a call about a domestic in Lewisham. Nothing out of the ordinary, mind.” They came to cross street and he paused to check for traffic before turning left. “When we arrived on the scene there was nothing to indicate it was anything beyond the usual barney. Husband goes out and gets lashed. Wife gets cheesed off and starts threatening divorce... same old, same old.” His finger tapped out an uneven rhythm. “I was hit before we ever saw the gun.”

 

Sherlock, by now, had been watching the other man during the development of his story. His own eyes focused on the road; Lestrade rubbed his hand across his lips before returning it to grip the wheel. “Caught one in the side – just a scratch, really.” He breathed in deep. “The second one missed my heart by about three centimeters.”

 

Sherlock said nothing. He'd known of the shooting, of course. He'd known about it from his first meeting with the man. All of those little tells had been more informative than any police report. Still; whatever he'd deduced from posture, gait, and gesture it paled next to the stoic, first person, recitation.

 

“Seems the wife had moved on from divorce to widowed. Or, so she'd intended. Dug out her husband's hunting rifle and tried to take a piece of him. Missed him by a mile but managed to find me twice. What kinda luck is that? Shot two times when she wasn't even after me but still managed to survive it? The house may not have won on that roll of the dice but it came damn close.”

 

They were only a few minutes from Baker Street, now. Traffic had thickened accordingly the deeper they had moved into the heart of London.

 

“It wasn't the same, after that day. I wasn't... the same. I started drinking, for one. And I started taking risks. After I was back to work, I mean. Insisted on going solo. Ditched my partner enough times he finally transferred to another unit. I was crashing, man. No idea where I would have ended up if it hadn't been for a good friend of mine from the academy. Inspector Toby Gregson. Works for the Sussex Constabulary now. He gave me the name of a therapist who could meet with me on weekends.”

 

“Please.” Sherlock scowled and returned to his mobile.

 

“Look, I'm not saying you have to go and I know you'll do whatever the hell you want no matter what anyone tells you.” Lestrade turned onto Baker Street – slowing as he neared the flat. “Just... think about it, yeah? Here...” He dug into his coat pocket and retrieved a small card – holding it out as the car came to a stop. Sherlock ignored it – shouldering open the door.

 

And then he stopped – gripping the rim with both hands. After a moment, he leaned back into the vehicle and grabbed the card.

 

“Good night, Lestrade.”

 

Lestrade nodded. “Night, Sherlock.”

 

 

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

John was still awake when Sherlock reentered the flat. Awake; and furious.

 

“You... promised me.”

 

Sherlock hung his coat, slipped his shoes from his feet, and moved his aching limbs to the kitchen where he found a fresh kettle. So Lestrade had been keeping John updated. He poured a mug – adding milk and sugar and taking a long swallow.

 

“You promised you wouldn't go dark. Sherlock. That was the reason I'd agreed to... to _this_... in the first place.”

 

The distance from kitchen to sitting room could well have been miles for all of the strength it sapped from his body. Tea in hand, bone weary, Sherlock forced a slow decent into his chair – every ache from the night's events, coming vividly to life, now that he was back home.

 

“Just one text, Sherlock. One. Just a single word would have done – Jesus, we've had this argument before, haven't we.” He huffed out a rough breath – both hands rubbing across his face.

 

Mug wrapped in his hands, Sherlock tapped a finger against the rim. It went against his nature to explain himself. With John, though, he often found himself compelled to make an effort.

 

Only... he couldn't.

 

Because every bit of reasoning that held validity, within his mind, became a weak excuse when constructed as spoken language. Verbose on amaranthine topics he'd found, when it came to subjects of personal impact, his word-crafting may well have been the babble of an infant.

 

And, yet, John wanted him to try, clearly. More than that, Sherlock found himself, against his better nature, wanting to be understood. The tea cup clinked against the saucer as he rested it on the table. Hands now free, he used them to scrub through his hair – flinching when he encountered the forgotten injury. There was blood on his fingertips when he lowered his hand.

 

“I had to.”

 

It was a long enough pause, after that initial foray, to establish that John's anger was not such that he would immediately stampede the time it would take to get through this. And he was going to need time.

 

“I... couldn't...” He pressed his knuckles against his mouth – felt their tremble, “I could not stop... him. When he...” his lips peeled back; frozen, suddenly, at speaking that which he'd so candidly and casually articulated all of those weeks previous. It stuck in the back of his throat like a clump of raw fat. He stuttered breath – eyes tracking towards the safety of the fireplace. Only embers, now, but the hot orange glow was a place to focus while his brain tried to shred itself.

 

“He has taken everything from me. Look at me, I can't control anything anymore; my own emotions – my mind...” his fingers rubbed the tears from his eyes, “I no longer know who I am...”

 

“You're Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Am I?” He looked up from his wet fingertips. John sat across from him; eyes so intent. Determined. Ready to go to war against something Sherlock could not even name. “In the end I... begged. I never beg. But when... when Gruner was... raping me I – I begged him, John... I begged... But he wouldn't... he wouldn't stop...”

 

The memory shoved behind his eyes and he crushed his fists against his face – body curving down over his knees. It was as though a lifetime of pushing away emotion, pain, grief... struck in an instant. And he no longer had it within him to shove it aside. His body shook as tears skidded across his knuckles; pattered beneath his clenched hands. Every time he believed he'd won, all it took was one memory – one smell – one sound and he was slammed back into that basement.

 

“I thought if I... stopped... _him_... Bradstreet; I thought if I could stop him... this would... this would... get better...”

 

_John, help me...!_

 

His fist swung away from his face and shattered his teacup on impact. Shoving out of his chair, hard enough to skid it backwards by a foot, he used both hands to sweep the mantle of everything within reach – letters, knick knacks, a forgotten dish of biscuits – all of it scattered to the floor. Not nearly enough destruction – only whetting his appetite, he turned, next to the bookcase, ripping volumes from the shelves before turning to snatch his music stand and throw it across the room with a throat tearing bellow...

 

He was gone – somewhere far from his mind, then. How long, he didn't know – everything coming back in tiny drips of sensation...

 

“...kay... it's okay... it's okay... You're safe, here.” John stood beside him where he'd finally stopped – seeing his own hands white-knuckled on the neck of his violin. His friend eased it, gently, from his hold. He would have smashed it without a thought.

 

In a span of lost minutes he'd demolished half of the flat. Papers littered the rug and tables – the floor lamp had been knocked down; bulb smashed on the hearth. Two of the wooden chairs had been overturned and the table, itself, had been knocked two feet off its center. The music stand, he'd recalled hurling, had struck the far wall; leaving a twelve inch gash in the wallpaper.

 

John had a hand near his arm, though he wasn't touching him. His soothing words were hardly above a whisper.

 

Sherlock let himself be herded back to his chair. He kept still while John collected his med kit and proceeded to clean up his scalp wound.

 

“Doesn't look like that needs stitching. You'll want to keep that dry, though. Try not to get it wet for a couple of days.” Two oval paracetamol tablets were laid in his palm – which he swallowed with the glass of water John provided.

 

He was shattered. The tremors running through his limbs, now, were less about anxiety and had far more to do with severe fatigue. Mind so spent he didn't notice when John disappeared for several minutes. It wasn't until the other man returned, groaning as he sat, that Sherlock looked up in confusion.

 

“Checking on Rosie. She's fine. Slept right through it like a trooper.”

 

Sherlock winced. “God, Rosie... I'm sorry... I didn't even think...”

 

“She's alright. Living with us, after all this time? She'd make a rubbish toddler if she couldn't sleep through a bit of shouting and commotion.”

 

It was nearly enough to pull a smile. Nearly... if exhaustion and the explosion of raw nerves hadn't stripped him down to the blank slate of apathy. His throat was swollen and the taste of salt lingered at the back of his tongue. Pressure had sunk into his chest and belly. Whatever else it had done, however, the emotional napalm strike had burned away every unwelcome entity in his own mind save for himself.

 

Minutes, in silence, ticked past. The embers in the fireplace snapped and hissed as they cooled; an occasional spark flickering up like a tiny flare only to vanish just as fast.

 

“It's been over a decade, now.” John said, finally; hands clasping between his knees. At Sherlock's raised eyes, he blew out a long breath. “Since Afghanistan. Since I fought in battle. Since I was shot... nearly died... and was sent home without my unit. Without a war. Without anything to do but... sit. And dream. God, those first few months, I'd dream every night. Blood and violence – watching mates blown to bits in front of me. I'd wake up in a sweat and sometimes, sitting up in bed with my heart in my throat, I'd still hear it. Even then, I'd hear it – the gunfire; the screams. Sometimes I'd even smell it. Acrid smoke and the hot, metal stink, of blood.” He tapped his thumbs together; lower lip pulling through his teeth. He squinted – eyes narrowing at the brush of memory. “And, you know, I still dream, sometimes. Not every night – no – not anymore. But sometimes... there will be a news story on the telly or I'll see someone wearing a certain shade of khaki... or I'll hear fireworks... and I'll be back there. Most of the time, it will be in a dream but there are still times it will happen while I'm awake. Flashback. Just – snap, like that, and I'm out of my head and stuck over there. Usually just for a few minutes. But, when it happens, it's frightening. Because part of me starts to wonder if I'd never left there. If maybe, this,” he gestured in a circle to encompass the room – possibly all of London, “if all of _this_ is the dream.”

 

Sherlock had relaxed, now – sunk back in his chair and breathing slow. The pull of sleep was a heavy weight and John's voice rolled across him like warm water. He had a spare thought that, perhaps, John had given him something stronger than pain medication but, no... his body was shutting down of its own accord. He'd pushed it beyond its limits and would sooner convince Mycroft to jog across Tower Bridge in the nude than to remain conscious. He let his eyes drift shut – sinking through the layers – carried away by the story.

 

Watching Sherlock fall asleep, face losing the tight lines of stress, John sat up to loosen the quilt draped across the back of his chair. He stood; placing it over his slumbering friend.

 

“One day,” he whispered, “this mad, brilliant, unbelievable man decided to saunter into my life – collar turned up, wild curls, and just as bold as you please. And he showed me what it meant to live again.” His chest throbbed with grief but he smiled – pushing back the sorrow. “Sherlock, no matter how long it takes, I will do the same. I'm never going to leave you. You are never going to have to face this alone. And that's a promise.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapters are taking a bit longer to assemble - I greatly apologize! The end game is still the same but getting there is taking longer than expected. Thank you all, SO much, for continuing to read, review, leave kudos, and generally being the driving reason I keep posting! You're awesome!!

 

Sherlock pulled up his collar as he entered the morgue. He'd slept fourteen hours after returning to the flat and his subsequent conversation with John. He'd suspected a sedative of some sort; briefly. However, John had put to rest such a suggestion with adamant denial. As it was, a test of the previous night's tea confirmed the absence of any known medications. Enduring the storm of raging, that had followed, Sherlock had pointed out that John had threatened sedation on no less than sixteen separate occasions. He was, however, forced to admit that John could, in such instances, be a bit of a windbag.

 

John had then resorted to another, familiar, threat of physical violence.

 

All in all it had proven to be productive afternoon.

 

That evening, after an early dinner with John and Rosie (who, as of late, had begun insisting on sitting in her Godfather's lap during mealtimes with the express purpose of trying to share her food with him. He couldn't recall the moment he'd signed up for having sticky baby fingers shoved into his mouth), Sherlock bundled into his coat and left the flat. Never a long wait for a cab on Baker Street, he caught one just minutes after reaching the pavement.

 

Ten minutes later he arrived at Barts.

 

Paying the cabbie, he stepped out onto the curb and took a moment to pull his coat tight about himself. Though it was chilly there was also an, admitted, comfort in burying himself in the heavy wool. Eyes closing for only a moment, he breathed, and stepped towards the doors.

 

Molly was alone in the lab. She smiled when she saw him enter and Sherlock, counter to the instincts that had ruled him for most of his life, hesitated. Right now, she was content. Right now, she was a woman who had overcome horror and had taken control of her life. Of course there were scars but who was he to reopen them? He – who knew, with blistering clarity, the agony of reopened scars. It was unbearable to that he could be the death knell to her current peace of mind.

 

“Something I can get for you? God, I feel like a waitress. 'The kidneys are fresh off the slab; would you like chips with those?'”

 

Sherlock smirked. This was not a side to Molly that he'd seen before – her humor tending towards hesitant and clumsy at best. Her little quip had actually been... rather amusing. It also sapped some of the tension from his limbs – allowing him to step further into the morgue.

 

“Nothing, tonight.” He was uncertain where to proceed, after that. This was a dynamic foreign to him. Prior interactions with Molly had always taken a specific pattern of engagement. He went to her when he needed something from her – be it body parts for study or the safety of her flat during the two years he'd played dead. But then... the dynamic had changed. He could remember the exact moment; standing before her, much like this, and asking her if she wanted to solve crime with him. Yes, he had needed someone to impress – he would no longer deny that. Yes, he had been missing John's presence, terribly. That, too, he could acquiesce. But... he had also wanted, her, with him. And he had felt an undefinable and unpleasant emotion when he'd understood that it could not be more than that one time. Regret. It had taken quite a long time to grasp that feeling – brought much more fully into the light when Mary's blood had covered his hands – listening to John make those horrified and agonizing sounds...

 

Long, long before Eurus's vicious games he had known his friendship with Molly had become something different. In what manner, he was still uncertain. Her comfort, in his presence, was one he had not experienced in the early years of their acquaintance. More fascinating was his comfort in hers – something he had not known with any person before John. It was apparent, as well, that their similar traumas had also made headway in altering their dynamic. And it was that topic which he now found locked up within his throat.

 

“Sherlock? I asked if you were alright?” Molly was before him. He had not been aware of her movements – caught within his own mind.

 

He swallowed. “Molly I... I wanted to ask if you'd... like to come with me to dinner, tomorrow night? At Baker Street.” he added.

 

Molly's body straightened in that familiar posture of unease – lips drawing tight as she looked away. After a moment she dropped her chin. “Sherlock, I know you're dealing with a great deal but I'm just... I'm-I'm not certain this is an appropriate reaction...”

 

His brow lined at her nervous stumble – familiar, yes, but not the response he'd expected. Certainly it wouldn't be the first time she'd have partaken in dinner at his flat – a regular occurrence on the days she minded Rosie. Nor was it the first time he'd asked her out for a meal. Granted, the last time had been after the false Ripper case and... oh...

 

“Molly, you misunderstand. I have something I need to share with you and I believe a social setting, such as a restaurant, would be uncomfortable for the topic at hand.”

 

Molly lifted her head – confused for only a moment before her eyes widened. Her fingers fiddled with the hem of her jumper and, for a moment, her eyes closed. “You...” She breathed; her eyes finding his, “you found him...”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

 

John and Rosie had eaten with them – the little girl giggling around bites of pasta that she charmed from every plate around the table with giant, pleading, eyes. Not even Sherlock was immune – though he did insist upon proper manners from the young Watson. “One does not slurp spaghetti and spatter tomato sauce across one's face and hair. You first twirl the noodles onto your fork and, should you prefer, you may use a spoon to assist.” He demonstrated while Rosie, as well as the rest of the table, watched without a sound. He didn't notice the wide grin on John's face nor the wistful smile on Molly's.

 

“There! Now, pop open your lips.” Rosie obeyed; mouth going wide as Sherlock held out the small twist of pasta. Leaning forward, she gobbled the bite; chewing as she rocked back and forth.

 

“What do we say, Rosie-Posey?” John smiled at his little girl.

 

Hopping on her heels, tottering slightly, Rosie grinned up at her benefactor. “Tay you, Pop Pop Shoo-Shoo!”

 

“You're welcome, Watson.”

 

Giggling, Rosie scampered back to Molly – arms high. “Up!”

 

Gathering the child, Molly held her for the rest of the meal.

 

Some time later, after John had taken Rosie upstairs for bed, Molly sat in his chair across from Sherlock.

 

“Your friend from University. Connie Doyle.”

 

Molly nodded – her eyes showing recognition at the forgotten name; though not enough familiarity to connect the pieces. Sherlock, in rare hesitation, rubbed his fingertips together – missing the firm rubber of his old squash ball. “Bradstreet was her fiance. He'd known you were going to be there, that night...” he waited, never lowering his gaze, knowing what this would do, “because she had told him so.”

 

Molly blinked; huffing a laugh, as was often her first instinct. She shook her head; though her smile was tight. “No. No, I don't believe that.” Her hands pushed against the arms of the chair, as though to stand, before she sank back down. “I don't believe that she... sh-she wouldn't... she...”

 

Sherlock said nothing more while her mind pulled the information together. Additional details would not be as powerful as her own memories – spotty though they were from the drugs that had been forced into her system. Her brows pushed down as she fell silent – replaying; squinting, at times, when the memories appeared difficult or impossible to retrieve. “I... met him. I remember – why hadn't I remembered?” Her eyes moved back and forth as her recall built in her mind. “He... would show up after classes were out for the day to take Connie home. He would always ask if I wanted to come along... come along for drinks, and...” she gasped; both hands covered her mouth as something sharp and quavering burst though her fingers.

 

Still at a distance, Sherlock lowered his eyes. “It was why she came to your home, afterwards, and told you she was sorry. It is also the reason you never saw her afterwards. He chose his victims; but it was Connie Doyle who prepared the drugs for his use.”

 

One hand still clamped over her face, Molly squeezed her eyes tight as tears dripped over her fingers. Choked off sorrow caught in her throat – composure racing away as long lost questions began to find answers.

 

Knowing well enough that there was nothing that could be done to make this better, Sherlock remained silent. There were wounds that went too deep – cut into vital parts of anatomy – left one bleeding internally for decades. What words could possibly heal such damage?

 

Relocating to the kitchen, Sherlock began to prepare tea. He remained there, while the kettle heated – selecting a blend free of caffeine, given the late hour. He passed on the biscuits – this was not a conversation that welcomed digestion.

 

Molly had drawn into herself by the time he returned – saying nothing as he set her cup on the small table beside her chair.

 

They held their teacups – each finding touch points within the room to hold their stares. For Sherlock it was the fireplace – the low flames a poor replacement for his mind palace but it had proven to be an acceptable option with his mind closed to him.

 

There were no more words until the cups in their hands emptied. Sherlock stood, taking the cup from Molly and returning them to the sink.

 

She followed him – her steps soft on the rug. She didn't speak while he washed the cups and set them on the rack to dry. How very like those quiet moments in her flat – in the days before his secret departure abroad. So... domestic. It had grated on him, then – the inactivity – the dull monotony grinding against the unacknowledged anxiety... fear. So many years later – carrying out actions that had long since become familiar with repetition. Odd... they did not trouble him, now. Odder still – he welcomed the quiet harmony of his actions.

 

“Thank you.” Her soft voice was hardly above a whisper. Sherlock dried his hands and turned. Molly had looped her fingers in the sleeve of her jumper – red and cream flowers in a heavy knit. “It doesn't....” She lifted her chin. Her eyes were red – the flesh below hollowed and damp. Fine hairs had pulled free from the loose twist arranged at the side of her neck. She brushed them back from her eyes with fingers half hidden in her cuff. “It doesn't change... anything. Knowing. Not really.” Her teeth tugged at her lower lip before she licked it – sniffing. “But I'm glad you told me.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Of course.”

 

Her smile was an attempt that failed before it even formed – tugging into a sniff filled with tears.

 

“May I?”

 

She looked at him, only for a moment, before nodding.

 

His arms went around her shoulders and she rested her body in his embrace – letting herself cry while he held her.

 

He said nothing. She said nothing in return. Somehow, that was enough.

 

 

 

◦

 

 

It was quite late when Molly prepared to leave. While knowing she was fully capable of making the journey unaccompanied, Sherlock shared the cab back to her flat. She hadn't wanted to be alone and, truly, neither had he – even with John just a floor above.

 

“Will I need to make a statement?”

 

No need to clarify her question. Sherlock tipped down his chin. “Do you wish to make a statement?”

 

She shrugged. “No. I don't know...” She rubbed her hand between her brows before looking out the window. “Does it make me a coward if I don't want to...”

 

“No. Of course not.” She turned back to Sherlock and straightened up a bit – eyes losing some of the devastation that had lingered in them for most of the evening. The soft shush of tires passing through standing water and the dull hum of the motor filled in the spaces between their conversation. The heater had been turned up a few degrees too warm and Sherlock felt sweat collect beneath his hairline.

 

“Thank you.”

 

He glanced towards Molly – her attention had turned back towards him.

 

“You've already thanked me, once. And there is no need, Molly.”

 

Her hand slid to his – tentatively resting over his knuckles. He turned up his palm to hold her fingers.

 

“I mean, for not... not leaving me alone. For coming home with me...” She suddenly flushed bright – pulling her hand back to cover her face. “Oh God – that came out all wrong!”

 

Feeling none of the awkwardness that had overtaken his companion, Sherlock hesitated a moment, at her embarrassment, before holding his hand out to her. It was interesting to realize that it was not purely for her comfort, that he offered his touch. No. As her hand returned to his, her face still warmed with blush, it was her touch, in return, that he wanted to feel. Quite without intending, his thumb traced across her knuckles.

 

They spoke, nothing more, the rest of the journey.

 

Instructing the cabbie to wait for him while he slid out of the cab behind Molly, Sherlock pulled up his collar as the brusque wind flapped his coat about his legs. Molly hunched and shivered – hands diving into her pockets as she hurried to the door. At a less rushed pace, Sherlock followed behind – rubbing his fingers against the chill.

 

He stood with her in the alcove, the space blocked in either side by large hedges, while Molly pulled her keys from her oversized bag.

 

She hesitated, however, before opening the door. “Do... do you want to...” She closed her eyes and shook her head; teeth catching her bottom lip. “Sorry; stupid... stupid...” Her voice was almost lost to the rushing wind. Her hands, clutching the keys, balled into fists before her.

 

Sherlock couldn't understand his own hesitation – only knowing that he felt compelled to remain. While not always so; in the years of their acquaintance, Molly's presence had become very agreeable to him. He would go as far as to call it pleasing. While never fully losing her nervousness, certainly she had become more comfortable with him, as well. They could spend hours in the lab, together, with no need for conversation. And, when they did speak, he found a woman with quick intelligence and cleverness that was nearly a match to his own. She was not the same as John – no, and nobody could be. John was his own person and Sherlock's match in ways that were different – more lent to excitement and adventure. John was both safety and the guarantee of danger and those warring elements made him the ideal friend. He'd lived life without that, for 2 years. He could not fathom a repeat of that absence.

 

With Molly, though... he found something that even John could not provide. There were few memories he could draw on to inform on the emotion, though there were some. The most powerful involved a collage of images; a fireplace roaring around oak logs – a mug of honeyed tea – his mother's soft touch through his wild curls...

 

He felt a compulsion pushing against his chest. Sentiment. Since Eurus and Sherrinford he'd been able to understand the missing pieces of his own mind – locked away for the bulk of his life. Emotion had pushed to the surface with greater regularity yet he'd also felt more in control of those emotions – understanding, finally, where they originated. But...

 

But since his rape, those emotions had scattered like chaff in a hurricane. He could no longer grasp them – could no longer control them as they whipped through his mind at random. Anger – fear – even odd elation when there was no clear trigger to warrant any of those feelings.

 

And now... Now something new, again. Was this nostalgia? No – he was familiar with that unwelcome sensation – the more bothersome of emotions, certainly, and one that had plagued him with regularity while tearing through Moriarty's network. This... this... _desire_... was different.

 

“May I...?” His hands shook. His breath stuttered. His heart slammed like a heart attack beneath his sternum. All of the sensations he'd come to associate with an anxiety attack save one, baffling, symptom.

 

He didn't want it to stop.

 

Molly had her hands knotted together – twisting them. Sherlock carefully tugged at her fingers; easing them open – resting his palms beneath hers and feeling the tremble in them both. Molly sniffed – shivering through another hard gust of wind.

 

“You should go inside. You are not dressed properly for the temperature.”

 

“You may.” Molly replied – non-sequitur creasing his forehead. Until her thumbs rubbed against his hands and her face tilted towards him. “Whatever you need.” She swallowed, flushing pink. “You may.”

 

Their hands still together, he leaned – watching her eyes for alarm. Instead of fear, however, her mouth pressed tight – edging into a shaky smile. Close enough that her breaths felt warm against his jaw, he rested his lips against hers – the softest caress gliding across her mouth. Head tipping the other way, she pushed up into his heat – adding intensity that cracked open a door he'd thought he'd locked years ago. Ache. Want. Pain – always pain. Her arms left his hands to tighten around his back – her cheek dropping to his chest and her soft assurances bringing awareness to the tears slipping down his face. It made no sense. Emotions so rarely made sense; a leading motivation for avoiding them in excess. No more, however; his mind swamped with decades of repression. As though every feeling that he'd ever locked away, denied, or crushed had struck him en masse. He clutched at Molly – furious – terrified – grieving all at once as his face pressed into her shoulder.

 

He held her until the cold sank into his limbs – feeling her body shudder in the icy wind that billowed their clothing – sliding beneath their layers to freeze against the flesh.

 

Whatever happened with his waiting cab went unnoticed as she led him inside. Well used to her flat, his steps did not require his eyesight – compromised by the hands he pressed against his eyes. Would the sorrow never leave him? Eurus had been right about him. Emotion was a destructive force that would tear him apart. He was not equipped to fight its power.

 

 _I am never going to get better. I no longer know my own mind. I can no longer walk its hallways. Even now – when I attempt it... I find only..._ he shuddered; teeth clamping tight around the rest of it. That he could still, even now, find the same dungeon – the same chains – and Gruner. Moriarty had become a relief, now; wandering outside of the palace with all of the brash confidence Sherlock had once known.

 

She let him stand near the door while she moved to the kitchen – soft light snapping on. A touch against his legs sent a dart through his chest – though reaction was only a tilt of his head to take in the small tortoiseshell winding around his shins.

 

“Sorry – he's hungry.” Molly walked quickly back through the room to collect her cat; cuddling the creature as she carried it on towards the kitchen. What was its name? Thomas? Tiberius?

 

“That's a good boy, Toby. You ready for some din-dins?”

 

Ah, Toby. Of course. Popular pet name, it would seem.

 

Using his thumb to clear the lingering wet from his eyes, Sherlock slipped out of his coat and draped it across the back of a chair – dropping down at the dining room table and letting his face fall into his hands. Exhaustion dragged against his limbs and he may have slept for several minutes – perhaps longer – because the sound of a cup tapping against the table shuddered him to awareness.

 

“Sorry... I made tea...” Molly sat across from him – sipping at her cup.

 

Sherlock inhaled the mild brew – chamomile. He appreciated the mild flavor; for once welcoming anything that could quiet his mind.

 

Molly set down her cup – fingers playing with the handle. “You can stay here – tonight. I made up the bed – for you, I mean. I'll sleep on the couch.” Blushing, once more, as she stuttered through her words.

 

Sherlock frowned. “Nonsense. I will not take your bed from you. The couch will be sufficient.”

 

“I can't believe we're having this argument again.” At Sherlock's confusion, Molly shook her head – lips twitching into a smile. “You insisted on taking the couch the last time you'd stayed here, remember? It's too short for you but you said it would be fine. The next thing I know, I'm woken up by my lamp smashing on the floor because you'd kicked it in your sleep.” She laughed – then – and Sherlock managed a smirk.

 

“Well it had been a hideous lamp.”

 

Molly laughed harder and Sherlock chuckled as well.

 

Afterwards, they finished their tea and Molly, firmly, demanded that Sherlock take the bed. Utterly knackered, he gave in – silently pleased to drop down onto her mattress. Soft – but not overly so – with just the right amount of give. Her wardrobe may suffer but Molly had excellent taste when it came to beds.

 

It smelled of her.

 

He turned his face into the pillow – clean but still scented of her shampoo. He faced the door – listening to the hushed preparations just beyond the painted wood. Her steps to the loo – the sound of running water as she brushed her teeth – the flush of the toilet – and then the movements back to the sitting room. She spoke, her words indistinct, as she conversed at her feline. Shortly thereafter she fell silent – asleep.

 

The familiar sounds of the flat were soothing. Sherlock's breathing deepened – eyes rolling shut – lulled by the distant sound of wind shaking through tree branches. His mind wandered into a room filled with gentle laughter and soft hands – crackling fire and a cup of hot, sweet, tea.

 

He was out within minutes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, this development has been planned for a long time. I also want to reassure anyone uneasy with where it may go that there will NOT be any "healing sex' in this story. This is not a romance story in any way. I truly believe (and it has been suggested even by Mark Gatiss and Benedict Cumberbatch) that Sherlock and Molly have a strong shot at ending up together. Whether it's years away or immediately after series 4 - we may never discover. But I certainly love the notion and find them absolutely adorable! All that said, this isn't the story for them to have naked times. However, I do also have this chapter as representing Sherlock's continued war within himself - no longer in control of his emotions after such a terrible trauma and acting in ways he likely wouldn't otherwise.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A much needed visit. Some crucial warm fuzzies and a bit of a break before the drama seeps back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A teeny tiny mention of past assault so, as always, heed the tags. Apologies for this very late update! The past few weeks were my last ones at my job. As such my exhaustion levels were maxed out nearly every night - partly from the stress (I WANTED to quit but it was stressful just the same) and partly from the up tick in my chronic pain which always gets worse in colder seasons.
> 
> By the by, I DID manage to, in the course of writing this chapter, hit upon a truly fantastic solution to a Mycroft scene that I've very much wanted since early in the creation of this story. I really cannot WAIT to post it!

Persistent cries and scraping at the door was the thing to wake him the following morning. Rubbing a hand through his shaggy hair, Sherlock tipped his head back in a massive yawn. A glance towards the bedside clock showed he'd slept past 10. He flopped back and stretched, yawning a second time while considering that a lie in had its merits. However, further sounds from the door soon undermined any thoughts towards additional rest.

 

Sitting up was a significant undertaking – limbs and lower back achy and stiff. Tiny cat paws snaked under the door – swiping back and forth while demanding mews issued from the other side. Molly had left, then, clearly – the overly needy feline moving to the next best option with its master gone.

 

Availing himself of the facilities meant hazarding the local wildlife – a not unfamiliar encounter as he'd been forced to brave such an environment once before. The undersized cat, thrilled at his appearance, began a demanding campaign for feeding – dashing between his feet and its bowl with an endless stream of chirrups, trills, and what Molly had once described as “Toby-speak”.

 

“You've been fed. I can see that there are still two tablespoons of kibble in your dish.”

 

Another round of perturbed complaints resumed – the little body weaving between his legs in a clear attempt at homicide.

 

“Well obviously you aren't as hungry as you claim else you'd have partaken of your remaining breakfast long ago.”

 

Dashing away from him, Toby sat next to his bowl – staring without a single twitch to his whiskers.

 

Sherlock glared back. “I will not give you more. You can wait for Molly to return.”

 

The cat proceeded to follow him all the way to the loo – paws resuming their urgent swiping beneath the door as he latched it behind him.

 

He used the facilities and showered – ever grateful that Molly was not one to indulge in overly scented soaps and shampoo but, rather, tended towards the most basic of cleansers. Afterwards he opened the medicine cabinet – unsurprised to find a new container of shaving cream, a razor, still in its package, and a new toothbrush. Molly had woken early, then; fetching the needed toiletries.

 

Ten minutes later he was back to Molly's bedroom – dressing in the previous day's clothes before pausing at the kitchen. There was coffee in a thermos and a note, indicating a plate of breakfast, awaiting him in the refrigerator. He poured a cup and skipped the scrambled eggs and sausage. He sipped while checking is phone. Two messages from John – both displaying the typically verbose babble that asked every question save the one intended; 'are you okay?'. He deleted both. The third text was from Lestrade – asking if he wanted to attend Bradstreet's arraignment. He hesitated to reply. This really wasn't a question meant for him, after all. Though Molly had shown reluctance to face Bradstreet; she'd also only just learned his identity. It had been different for Sherlock – facing Gruner. He'd been prepared and had actively participated in his capture. His entire focus had been to see the man apprehended. Molly, however, had found a different path after her rape. She had come to terms with her attacker never being identified much less brought up on charges. To have her worldview suddenly upended... well, that was something Sherlock could relate to quite poignantly. After all, he'd now had over two years to internalize the truth about Redbeard/Victor/Eurus and, yet... He still had dreams. Deep water – an endless search – a child's voice calling for his only friend... Only, now, it too often ended with that hidden well and rotting bones. The well, itself, had since been filled in. Victor's grave now, appropriately, buried after his remains had been laid to rest in his family's plot. His father had been the only one remaining, alive, to claim them – his mother having passed nearly a decade earlier from cancer of the liver.

 

Mental delay tactics – how often he found himself wandering down random trails. While avoidance was second nature – a Holmes curse, it would seem, he was disturbed at how frequently, these last months, it had begun to slip so far from his control. He'd had that control, once. When he could step into his mind and catalog – parse – delete as needed. A function so automatic that it had carried on those duties the very last time he'd been in that pristine space... While he'd been clinging to the mental avatars of his friends, his brain had sopped up every sound, every touch, every smell involved with Grunar forcing his body upon him. He had a perfect recording, in all of its nuance, of his rape – down to the fingernail Grunar had torn while clutching his hip as he climaxed.

 

Sherlock fumbled his mobile – the device bouncing against the edge of the table before tumbling down to the floor.

 

Arms around his middle, he felt his gut seize in a violent cramp. He shot out one hand to grip the table – acid seeping into his throat as the regretted cup of coffee boiled at the back of his tongue. No time for the loo, he stumbled to the sink and vomited. Barely time to breathe between the contractions of his gut, another ejection forced its way through his throat. By the third choking expulsion there was little more than acid trickling from his lips – not that it stopped his insides from shuddering through helpless convulsions – stomach muscles tight with pain by the time he finally forced back the impulse with heavy breathing and a good deal of swallowing. His cheeks were wet and he used the convenience of the faucet to wash his face and clear his mouth of sourness.

 

His morning shower felt years in the past – all of the sensations of filth stacking together in a pressure wave – like a fist shoving against the base of his skull. He hung over the sink, though the vibrant urge to vomit had abated. Slow tears created paths in the hollows of his cheeks. He didn't bother to scrub them away.

 

The soft bump of a light form against his shoulder – while unexpected – was familiar enough not to startle him. Toby pressed closer when he turned his head – the little cat purring as he thumped his round skull against Sherlock's forehead. The purrs vibrated into a full concerto when Sherlock sritched his fingernails through the fur beneath Toby's throat and the cat extended his neck to take full advantage.

 

“I've read that petting an animal will dramatically reduce cortisol levels whilst, simultaneously, boosting oxytocin.” Stress relief in a six pound, whiskered, package. Little wonder Molly enjoyed the small creature. Though fractious and needy there was, clearly, a payoff to indulging the difficult beast.

 

Not just for Molly, it would seem. Sherlock closed his eyes as the tension that has stiffened his shoulders and ground his teeth together began to loosen from his limbs. The exhaustion that followed was not as powerful as he'd grown accustomed. Perhaps the dreamless night had contributed. A final stroke down Toby's spine, the backend lifting his tail high, and Sherlock went back towards the table to retrieve his mobile.

 

Another text from John.

 

**I just called Molly. Do you need a lift back to the flat?**

 

He rolled his eyes before sending back a short reply.

 

**No. Aren't you late for the clinic?**

 

The response came in seconds.

 

**How do you know I'm not texting from the clinic?**

 

Sherlock pulled on his coat before tapping a somewhat longer commentary.

 

**Third text this morning. Obvious over inflated worry. Follow up call to Molly rather than speaking in person. Offer of a lift to the flat. ie: you are sitting at the table, next to the window, while watching for my arrival like an elderly mother.**

 

The next text didn't so much as attempt rebuttal.

 

**I'm allowed to worry**

 

Sherlock's reply was even shorter and to the point.

 

**Bothersome**

 

Of course, stepping out of Molly's flat, Sherlock felt an irritated stab at having refused John's offer. Not exactly the heart of London – Molly's street was over a quarter mile from any major thoroughfare and it was nearly ten minutes walk in the chill wind before he reached a respectable street with adequate traffic. Still, it was another eight minutes before a cab bothered to pull to the curb – Sherlock's cheeks reddened with the cold and feeling like some sort of vagrant at the look he engendered from the cabbie.

 

He gave his destination as he slipped into the warm cab – noting the rather vast collection of photographs tacked to the dash; wife and children; even the family dog had made the cut. The heady perfume of incense was sharp enough to grate against his sinuses; a powerful blend of orange, cedar, and hibiscus.

 

The sky had begun to spatter small pellets of icy rain by the time they reached Baker Street. A handful of bills, approximating the amount due, were passed to the silent man behind the wheel before Sherlock stepped rapidly towards the door – only to stop short and scowl at the straight knocker. The scowl only deepened as, when entering the lower floor, he noted the fading musk of Jannatul Firdaus entangled with the odor of wet wool and fresh baking.

 

All of this led to the complete lack of surprise, and considerable consternation, when he reached the second floor only to be accosted by his mother scarcely a moment from entering the sitting room.

 

“There's my boy! I'd been wondering where you'd gone off too! Myc insisted you were fine but he's been known to cover for you...” Her words trailed off, as they were wont to do, when even the hint of Sherlock's drug use came into the conversation. Instead, she held him a bit tighter than even she was prone towards. If Sherlock held her a bit longer than the usual nothing was said of it.

 

Releasing him, his mother resumed a conversation he hadn't realized they were having. “Well you were hardly going to be traveling to Surry of your own recognizance and your father has some business to attend to with the Turkish Ambassador, tomorrow. I, of course, have accompanied him with the express purpose of imposing upon my youngest child for some long lapsed visitation. Well, and to see this little poppet!” Her attention, thankfully, diverting to Rosie – who appeared to have just woken from her nap – face still splotchy with sleep. The beginnings of a strop were waylaid by the sight of the older woman and the closest thing to a grandmother that the child had ever known. No longer interested in her father, Rosie held out both arms to Mellie – patting the woman's cheeks the moment she was lifted from John's arms.

 

Sigur wove around his cooing wife to place his weathered hands on the shoulders of his youngest. “Sherlock. How... how are you feeling?”

 

Lacking the boisterous exuberance of his wife, Sigur, instead, had a quiet intensity in the face of difficult emotions. John would find it shocking but much of Sherlock's personality had come from his mother – which had led to a disproportionate number of blow ups between the two. His father, however, had always been a safe harbor when his mind required a refuge. Mindful of his brother, lurking in the kitchen, Sherlock patted his father's arms before extracting himself from his grip. “Perfectly fine. Should we have tea before Mycroft gobbles all of the toffee pudding?”

 

“Oh, Lock, now you behave yourself.” His mother retorted – though there was no weight behind her admonishment – disrupted, as it was, by chuckles at the little girl in her lap.

 

Tea was actually less excruciating that it would have seemed. Despite his earlier nausea, Sherlock ate several of the sticky cakes – going so far as to lick his fingers and pout mournfully at his empty plate when the last one was given to Rosie to destroy.

 

John and Sigur handled the clean up, afterwards, before they all moved into the sitting room. Sherlock took his usual chair while John, ever the gentleman, gave up his seat for Mellie; pulling around one of the wooden desk chairs before lifting Rosie to his knee. Mycroft and Sigur both remained standing – slightly apart from the other and chatting in low voices about Sigur's upcoming political foray.

 

Face to face with his mother, Sherlock battled the impulse to flutter his fingers; something of which he'd found he had far less control as of late. Small talk was never a forte – though his mother practically carried a degree in the practice; launching into an involved monologue about the cherry trees and how the bad winter had nearly killed off several. He perked with interest, however, when she mentioned the new fox den his father had discovered on one of his long walks.

 

“The male was your typical red – very handsome fellow. The female, as well as three of the five pups, however, was marble.”

 

Sherlock sat up. “Released or possibly an escaped pet?”

 

Mellie nodded. “That's what your father believes. However she shows no inclination towards domesticity – all the better. And she and the male have managed to keep the whole family fat and healthy. Still, we're keeping an eye on them. Your father is especially doting and I've twice had to speak to him about leaving chicken carcasses near the den. I won't have dependents among the wildlife.”

 

Sherlock managed not to snort though his lip raised in a smirk. “Not unless it's of the aviary variety.”

 

His mother scowled, though it was without heat. “Oh, you! Now you know, very well, that you enjoy watching the birds that visit the feeder just as much as I do. Speaking of which, did I tell you we saw a nightjar last week? Can you believe it?”

 

Now completely captivated, Sherlock leaned forward on his elbows. “Male or female? Did you manage to photograph it? How large was it?”

 

Mellie pulled out her mobile and, wonder of wonders, had actually managed a, mostly unshaky, fifteen second recording which even included a short burst of its distinctive call. The next half hour was taken up with discussion for enticing a second visit as well as affixing a high resolution, motion-activated camera, adjacent to the feeder in hopes of capturing more detailed images.

 

By the time Mellie and Sigur were ready to leave, Sherlock had actually promised a visit in the coming month. Unspoken was the realization that he felt a longing for the peaceful forest trails.

 

Sherlock was still in his chair when John returned from seeing the rest of the Holmes family to their car. Rosie had fallen asleep on Sherlock's shoulder and his hand idly stroked her back. It was amazing how much heat a toddler could generate; her cheek, pressed against his collarbone, producing an expanding circle of sweat. Not for the first time he pondered the energy output of a sleeping child. If a single, boiled, potato were capable of generating 5 volts of electricity, then a child could, conceivably, put forth as much as 50 to 60 watts.

 

“Your mother wants to take us to breakfast tomorrow morning.”

 

Half an ear to his flatmate, Sherlock had progressed to formulating a suitable testing environment that would catalog energy yields both sleeping and awake whilst ensuring the least discomfort to the subject. “Hm...”

 

Slipping off his shoes, John crossed to the kitchen to put away the remaining items from their tea.

 

“Turned her down, of course. Told her I had an emergency flight to Zurich and that you'd set aside the next three days to teach yourself how to play Finnegan's Wake on the cello.”

 

That took a bit of a moment to sink past his contemplation – long enough that John was halfway across the floor to retrieve his daughter when Sherlock abruptly frowned. “Don't be preposterous, I don't know anyone named Finnegan – well, apart from Silas Finnegan but he was better known as Finnegan the Philanderer. He turned up six years ago in Portsmouth missing key components of male anatomy...”

 

Wincing, John raised one hand to forestall further details. “More than enough for me, thanks.” Lying Rose against his chest with only a single jerk of her limbs, John shook his head; though his smile was fond. “You know, sarcasm is wasted on you.”

 

Sherlock leaned back and crossed one leg. “Thank you.”

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

 

Mellie and Sigur Holmes sat across from Mycroft on the way back to their eldest son's home. Mellie had her right hand tightly grasped in Sigur's left. The easy smiles from earlier that evening had melted away as the car had pulled onto the street.

 

“Has he met with anyone?”

 

Mycroft rested his palms flat on his knees – regarding his parents for a moment. After a heavy sigh, he shook his head. “No. Though, while I understand he has spoken to John Watson, I do not know in what detail nor how frequently. He has, so far, resisted any suggestion of counseling.”

 

Silent, Mellie lowered her eyes to her lap – though she couldn't hide the tears dripping from her chin. Sigur did not look away from his son.

 

“What can we do for him?”

 

Were circumstances less distressing, Mycroft may have found amusement that his parents would seek his counsel on matters of emotion. As it was, he recognized the wisdom in not informing the pair about Sherlock's attempt at self-destruction. However, that did lead him towards a topic with which they needed to remain aware.

 

“He is vulnerable. We must remain vigilant and, whenever possible, he must not be left alone.”

 

Mellie lifted her head; needing no further clarification. This was a well known conversation amongst them. “What about last night? Is it possible he was..?”

 

Mycroft shook his head; managing, even, a tight smile. “I can assure you Sherlock was far from alone, last night. In fact, he was in the best possible hands.” He said no more.

 

Fresh tears tracking down her cheeks, Mellie nearly vibrated with a sudden flush of rage. “Five minutes... just five minutes with that... that _beast_.” She gasped around a sob. “I would tear out his throat!”

 

Mycroft nodded, his hands curling to fists. “Yes. I rather believe you would.” He turned to face the window, then; watching London through the glow of a fading afternoon sun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name for Sherlock's mother was directly lifted from sgam76, who has written some of the most astounding Sherlock stories I've ever read! If you haven't seen them you absolutely MUST check them out! They are glorious!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is forced to act. 
> 
> Something hideous is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doubles down on the trigger warnings so please heed them! Also this chapter is the reason I added a few new tags.
> 
> On an unrelated note, I will eventually add artwork to every chapter. However, that will take a bit of time so please be patent - I promise I'll get them done as soon as I can!

 

He couldn't deny that he'd been pondering it for weeks. Unlike his brother, Mycroft wasn't prone to reckless actions. He considered the consequences. He measured the cost. He contemplated alternatives and options and weighed everything to the smallest gram.

 

His conscience was not something he'd often had to wrestle. Certainly not in this circumstance. As it was, conscience had had no impact on his decision. It had been a mission – nothing more. Self-appointed, yes, but one he would never have burdened on a subordinate. Not due to impropriety, no. This had been... personal.

 

Sentiment, as he'd so often told his brother, was a deficit to intelligence. One did not allow emotion to control their actions like an animal. Theirs was a world governed by the strict rule of law and order. Of course, this hadn't prevented his brother from shooting a man in the head. The consequence of that action had nearly been his brother's death. Albeit a lingering one; had another dead man not intervened.

 

And, yet, he'd found himself beset by the same... rage... that had driven his brother.

 

Had it been worth it? He was on uncertain ground. Was it only his own guilt he'd wanted to assuage? Was there more to it, than that? Dragon slayer was the title he'd bequeathed to Sherlock and, yet, was this not the same? No... he was no knight. A knight did not send his own blood into battle without knowing the risks. Without knowing, truthfully, that there was even a battle.

 

The sound of water, dripping from the tap, returned his thoughts to the present. The matter was not yet settled. First, there was a pompous bastard to be dealt with. The matter of his involvement could not go unanswered; nor the manner in which he'd manipulated events to suit his purpose. That Mycroft had gone along with it, however unwittingly, was a burden he would carry to his death. However, his own retribution would need to wait.

 

He wet a towel and wiped his eyes. The second thing he needed to manage would be, in many ways, much more difficult. It was a consequence in which he could not perceive the full repercussions. That... terrified him.

 

He needed to speak with Sherlock.

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

Anthea gave two knocks, as was customary, before entering. Having known one another since well before either of them had joined MI6, the need for any sort of pleasantries were long made moot. Updates, first, on the uprising in Volgograd. The area, while unstable, would hold, for now. The agents on the ground had taken some fire from insurgents but had managed to hold them off without any casualties. A request for additional supplies was approved.

 

“We received a reply regarding our request for a delay in the prisoner transfer.”

 

Mycroft didn't life his eyes, though he laid his pen across his blotter and steepled his fingers. “And?” After a moment of continued silence, he tilted up his head towards the woman across from him. Anthea had yet to speak but her expression, usually so guarded, was enough of a confirmation. “I see.”

 

Anthea took a step forward, however, as Mycroft reached for his pen. “There's more.” No longer merely agonized, her eyes pinched with something bordering on fury. “I've been informed that there was a visitor to his cell last evening.” She breathed out; fingers drumming against her mobile. “It was Greenhill.”

 

Not entirely unexpected, regretfully.

 

After Anthea had gone, Mycroft spent considerable time behind steepled fingers. The security recording had, of course, given nothing away. Greenhill's back had faced the lens the entire time and Gruner had been mostly blocked by the larger man's bulk. Audio had been disabled; naturally.

 

Just fifteen minutes of conversation. At the end of it, Greenhill turned, face revealing nothing, and exited. Gruner... Gruner was smiling.

 

Mycroft tapped a key to end the recording. His hands clasped together in front of his mouth, the tips of his thumbs running back and forth across his lower lip. He'd been placed in a similar position, once before; digging into the affairs with a highly placed official under suspicion of corruption. The result of his involvement had, ultimately, ended with a terrible loss and the estrangement of his brother from his best friend.

 

It was within Greenhill's purview to carry out private interrogations on any prisoner within the walls of the facility. That his meeting with Gruner had preceded the transfer order could mean nothing at all or, possibly, a deal in exchange for information.

 

He knew, in part, what Gruner had to offer. There were other victims aside from his brother. Nothing to interest Greenhill, surely. This would require a deeper look. As for any offers; well, Gruner was likely looking at life. The obvious bargain would be a reduction of that sentence.

 

Well, he'd see about that.

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

He'd requested a standard interrogation room. Both hands would be restrained in manacles mounted to a steel table. He'd had one experience too many with seeing the prisoner unrestrained and a repeat of that abhorrent display was not on his agenda.

 

While the conversation had always been on the docket, Greenhill's mechanizations had, of course, moved up the timetable considerably. Gruner was scheduled to be transferred next week. He could no longer delay this.

 

It wasn't in his nature to hesitate.

 

The steel, windowless door, was flanked on either side by a guard. There were cameras but they had been disabled. Off the books, as it were. Gruner was on the other side. He'd been brought in ten minutes previously by the two men now standing watch.

 

Based on the previous interaction it was inevitable what this conversation would entail. Gruner was nothing if not obsessively consistent. Pulling his jacket straight, Mycroft reached up and typed in the release code. The door unlocked with a heavy clunk of rolling tumblers.

 

Gruner was on the far side of the table. He'd been staring at his hands but, once the door slid aside, lifted his chin. “Well hello there, big bro! Tell me... what have you got that's gonna make me open up for you? Cause, me? I have a great suggestion.”

 

Right hand pressing, briefly, against his inner pocket, Mycroft laid a slim notebook on the table along with a pencil. Unbuttoning his jacket, he sat across from the other man.

 

“I will allow this... obscenity... only on the condition that you provide names throughout your little sharing time. If, at any point, I feel you are lying or reluctant, I will cease all interaction. I will walk out the door and you will never see another living soul, other than your guards, for the rest of your incarceration. Do you comprehend these terms?”

 

Gruner's lips peeled back in a grin. “Perfectly.” He leaned on his forearms. “Now. Speaking of terms...”

 

“You wish to regale me about the atrocities you committed against my brother.”

 

Laughter belted out for several seconds. “Well, way I figure it, he probably hasn't told you a great deal about what went on between him and I. Not the kiss and tell type. Oh, not like me. I'm the kinda guy who likes to brag about his conquests. But... being in here? I've pretty much just had myself.” He licked his tongue across his front teeth. “You love your brother... don'cha.”

 

Mycroft's breaths remained even – his pulse steady. Though his throat had gone tacky he resisted the urge to noticeably swallow. He had never asked Sherlock to speak of this. He would never. Nor had he requested that John Watson divulge any of their conversations save for any warnings that would suggest intervention may be required. In hindsight, after Sherlock's near suicidal attempt, he should have been more involved. It had never been their way to pick at their wounds. To see those wounds rapturously detailed by this... _malignant tumor_... was an abomination.

 

And, yet... there were others, like his brother, who had been hurt by this creature. He would not have their blood on his hands, as well.

 

Gruner rolled his wrists – tilting his head at the mild blush of red that rose under the pinching metal. “What was it like? That moment when you realized he'd been ruined? Oh if I coulda had a camera...” He hitched his eyebrows in that 'two men telling tales in a dark pub' way that wound an ugly curl through Mycroft's intestines. “Did he cry when you touched him? Did he try to get away? Did he even know who you were or did he think you were just the next bloke in line?”

 

There was a reason Mycroft loathed revisiting the past. His fingernails dug into his palms. He knew this to be only the beginning of this horror show. However, as his brother had been forced to live it, he could bear this in his stead.

 

“How could you ever keep your hands off him? Yeah, sure, he's your brother, blah, blah, blah.” Gruner rubbed his fingertips together. “Thing is, you don't look anything alike. Your mum get a piece of someone on the side? Hey – nobody would fault you for lookin. Specially a half brother – I mean, that's just one step away from a total stranger. After all, he's a stunner, now, but I can't even imagine what he must have been like growin' up. Those long limbs and tight little bum – eyes huge and innocent. And that mouth. God, what a wet dream. Tell me... indulge me now it's just you and me here. When Sherly was really bad, you know, when he was using... he ever offer anything besides cash for his fix? I mean, I know how it is, in families. You try everything to get them to quit and, at some point, you have to just cut them off. So, here's this kid – desperate – tweakin' – and ready to do fuckin' anything for that needle... And those looks, he's had to have had offers...”

 

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “Don't presume to overlay the failings within your own family upon my own.” In fact, for a long time, Mycroft hadn't been entirely certain about those facts. It had been a whirling horror during the months Sherlock would go missing – out of even his reach. Before he and Sherlock had come to an agreement about his brother's use. No, Sherlock had never sold himself – he'd assured his brother of that during a very rare moment of vulnerability. And yes, he'd had offers. Many, in fact – some more forceful than others and it had chilled Mycroft to be reminded that the dangers to his brother went beyond an overdose. So he'd resumed Sherlock's martial arts training – insisted that if his brother were going to spend his nights on the street he was going to be able to defend himself. Both he and Sherlock had tutored, while younger, with an accomplished Jiu Jitsu master. After Sherlock had gone off to Uni, he'd, eventually, ended his tutelage in favor of getting high. That same master had been readily available to pick up where they'd left off. In the years to follow, Sherlock would learn a number of disciplines – including several he, himself, devised. He became quite accomplished. Mycroft had no longer worried about that specific danger to his brother. God...

 

Gruner, of course, saw none of that turmoil cross his features. “How young were you, Alden, when your father beat you for the first time? Did he catch you with the family dog or, perhaps, had you graduated to ogling your sister in her bed?”

 

Gruner's eyes glared – body tensing up before, abruptly, he chuckled. “Yeah, dad was a worthless old sod. I'd say the best day of my life was when the emphysema finally took 'em. Was the best day, for a long while. But... well... I think we both know what my new best day is, now, don't we. So how about we get back to it, hm?”

 

“A name.”

 

There was no hesitation in the reply. “Bennie Adelaide. Fifteen. He was my first. Wispy – pale little thing. Used to come by the stables and pick up lineament for his old man's horses. I was only two years older than him. We got on nice. We were mates; him and me. Dunno what really changed things. Always thought he was pretty, you know? Always likes that colorin. Dark hair, light skin, pale eyes... Had freckles all up and down his arms but none on his face 'cept one next to his lip. Guess you'd call it a mole. Well, anyway, I started thinking about that mole. Every time we'd hang out together; I'd think about it. Started thinking about kissing it. Anyway, one day he asked if I wanted to go fishing with him. Never been much for fishing, me. But, I thought... perfect time to let him know how I felt, you know? So we made some sandwiches and got some of my dad's fishing gear and...”

 

“You raped him. Is that what this lurid little country tale is meant to lead up to?”

 

“Cut to the chase – you wanna get back to the good stuff. Yeah, me too. And, yeah, Bennie wasn't interested in boys. Well, neither am I, really. Not interested in girls either. But making someone do something they don't want? Nothing like it. And I like the pretty ones. Especially the ones that think they're untouchable. Take 'em down a peg. Show 'em what they're really worth. First time I saw your brother I knew I had to have him. Eight years I had to wait. Nearly a decade. Almost couldn't hold myself back when I first saw him in that pub. Daydreamed about pulling him into the gents. Bit cliché' that, though.” He chuckled, scratching his arm. “Oh but the anticipation... finally putting my hands on him... touching him... he knew what was coming. Said as much, when we finally got to Appledore. Like he wasn't scared, or something. Ah, but he was. Couldn't stop his hands from shaking – fingers moving and clenching. I could have screamed when Richard had first go at him. Nearly beat him to a pulp and it woulda been just my luck he'd knock him unconscious before I finally had my turn. You know, it's criminal that, after all those years, I only got to have him one time. That mouth... I think about it every day. Him on his knees...”

 

“Mr. Gruner...” The ice in his tone would have been warning enough for most but Gruner wasn't intimidated in the least, given his smirk.

 

“Aw, come on, bro! Indulge me a little! Not like you'll let me and Sherly enjoy another tryst. Besides, you wanna know all those sordid little details, don'cha? Not like baby bro is all into sharin'. Well... leastways not in the conversational sense. Naw... he'd be keeping the best parts to himself.” He tried to lean back in his chair but the manacles, locking him to the table, prevented the movement.

 

“A name.”

 

Gruner rolled his eyes but complied. “Annette Lands, thirteen, Oxford.”

 

Mycroft copied the information while Gruner continued.

 

“You know what sweat tastes like when someone is so terrified they can't think straight? It ain't sour – not like it smells. No it's... it's almost sweet. I sucked sweat from the back of his neck and – no lie – you could bottle that shit. He was shivering so hard... it got to my heart, it really did. Told him it was all gonna be okay. I'd take good care of him. God, he was so precious... so lovely. More than anything I wanted to take it slow. I coulda fucked him for hours. But... well... needs must. Only made one sound, at first. I still hear it.” He leaned forward – his grin going to a slant. “You wanna know what he said? When I started pushing my way inside?” He licked his lips, chuckling. “Just one word... in that pretty little cry. Almost a whimper.” His voice lifted high in a broken, breathless, mockery, “ _Mycroft_.”

 

He wasn't known as the Iceman for nothing. Mycroft did not so much as allow his eyelid to flicker. Compartmentalizing emotions was second nature. And yet, he knew his control was not as it once had been. Sherrinford had left its mark and he was forced to resort to a rudimentary method of compelling calm – sinking molars into the side of his tongue. The result was largely successful – though he had to clench his fingers around the pencil to stop his hand from shaking.

 

He knew he hadn't visually given himself away but Gruner still chuckled. A psychopath; he was amused purely in the sharing of his sadism; in planting the images of Sherlock's degradation in his brother's mind.

 

“He didn't say anything after that. Not for a long while. Just sorta panted. Oh, and I didn't mind that. I mean, not like I wasn't panting a bit myself. Hard work – having sex standing up. Wasn't really my choice but my bitch sister was the one callin' all the shots so – take what you can get, I guess. Or who...”

 

“A name.” His voice rasped, that time. His mouth had leached of moisture and he was nearly tempted to halt this to go for a glass of water. But... if he left, now, he wasn't certain he'd be able to return.

 

“Davis T. Bellin. Eighteen. Salisbury.”

 

Between each name, Gruner continued to share – clearly excited as he dwelled on every wretched act he'd committed on Sherlock's body and mind. Every cry – every tremble – every plea.

 

“He could barely stand at the end. Had to dig in with my fingernails to keep him on his feet just so I could finally come. Wasn't even crying anymore – not really. I'm not even sure he was really all there... just mumbling some sorta... gibberish... what was it...?” He tapped his finger against the table top – eyes going distant. “Grows loss?” He shrugged. “Said it over and over. Grows loss, grows loss...”

 

Mycroft stiffened; unable to hide his dismay. Not grows loss... _gros ours_. It was French. The literal translation was “large bear”. It was Sherlock's childhood nickname for his older brother.

 

That time Gruner saw, and he laughed. “Oh, fuck – your face! Haha!” He leaned forward again – eyes fascinated. “Come on; what did it mean? I gotta know – it's really gonna bug me, now.”

 

Mycroft stood – hands clenching and relaxing, almost without thought. He circled the table until he stood just behind Gruner.

 

“A name.”

 

The larger man shrugged again. “What for? I'm done with my story. You want more names? You bring baby brother for another visit. Just a chat. I'll give you a name for every minute I get to spend with him. But...” He turned his head, just enough to look back at Mycroft, “I can give you much... much more... than just names. I can give you others... like me. I know dozens. A whole network. Pedophiles, slavers; some of them even members of your precious MI6. All I want? Twenty minutes, unsupervised, with baby brother. And, no glass in the way, this time.”

 

Feeling a rush of sickness curl hot in his belly Mycroft practically snarled. “That will never happen!”

 

Gruner laughed again. “A shame. Harder to get off unless I can look into those baby blue eyes. Or are they green? Ah, well, I don't really expect it. Not with you, at any rate. But that tubby boss of yours? Let's just say he's a bit more willing to negotiate...”

 

Everything in Mycroft froze. However, he'd managed to subdue his reactions, once more, and pull the mask in place before stepping closer to the other man.

 

“He would never agree to such terms.”

 

Gruner chuckled. “No? That isn't what ole' Roddy told me. See, he wanted to offer a few years shaved off the back end of my sentence. Cut it down to as little as forty... maybe even thirty if I kept my head down. Real nice deal, he told me. More fair than a lowlife like me deserved.” He rotated his wrists – letting the manacles clink. “Maybe... if he could get it down to ten... maybe. But, well, even thirty would be a bit too long. Yeah, maybe, once I was out, I could look up Sherly to resume our little courtship buuut... I just don't want to wait that long. Not till he's feeble and grey, naw... I want one more taste while he's still young. Told Roddy he could keep his extra years. I just wanted one night. Just one.” He shook through his chuckles; rolling his eyes up towards Mycroft. “It's funny... how fast ole' Roddy seemed agreeable to pimpin' your beautiful baby brother if it would mean dismantling one of the biggest sex trafficking rings in London.” He leaned forward to pick his teeth with a dirty fingernail. “Besides... who do you think it was that put Sherly in that pub in the first place? Or did you think that was all just a happy coincidence that were were ready and waiting for him?”

 

Everything stopped.

 

It was strange, how little he could remember of this moment, hours later. Or, rather, the things he _could_ remember. He remembered a little boy in a pirate's hat. He remembered fading notes from a violin. He remembered blood on a broken, concrete floor.

 

He remembered nothing of moving forward.

 

Mycroft, for all of his bureaucratic appearance and genteel mien, could act with astounding speed when the situation warranted. Gruner stuttered a gasp; shoulders trembling as he hunched forward; eyes bugged wide.

 

Leaning just in front of him, Mycroft held his fist tight against Gruner's belly; the 4 inch blade embedded just above the other man's navel.

 

“You'll... hang...” Gruner choked – his hands clenching uselessly in their manacles.

 

“Oh, I don't believe I will.” Mycroft gave the blade an additional, slow, push; until Gruner gurgled and a thick drip of blood slid from his lower lip.

 

“You see, when the guards arrive to escort you back to your cell, they will confirm that you were in perfect health, if a bit belligerent. Tonight, when the evening shift brings you your meal, you will be found, dead. In your possession will be a small blade fashioned from one of your plastic utensils. It will perfectly match the wound in your odious gut. There will be a perfunctory investigation that will ultimately be dropped after they determine that it was, indeed, suicide. The world will continue on without you. You will not be so much as a footnote in history. And nobody will speak of you again.” He finished with a final, hard, shove.

 

A moment later, Mycroft stood; tugging the blade free before tucking it into a handkerchief. He walked to the door – knuckles raised to rap against the metal.

 

Behind him, the sound roughened by a mouthful of blood, Gruner laughed. “You think your sweet baby brother... will ever... be able to forget me..?”

 

Without turning, Mycroft lifted his chin. “You'd be surprised what my brother can forget.” He knocked, then. After a moment, the door slid aside and he stepped out.

 

He nodded to the guards on either side of the door. Elias Beattie and Christopher Hobbs. He didn't know them well. However, they were well acquainted with his brother. Twelve years previously, Sherlock had been instrumental in finding their, then, three year old daughter after she'd been kidnapped from her bedroom by the brother of the child's birth mother. Sherlock had sustained a fractured wrist in the recovery but the child had been unharmed. The two men had been devoted to him ever since.

 

The guards nodded to Mycroft in return; the unspoken words carrying the intended message. It is done.

 

He was silent as he walked down the narrow hallway. Interesting sensation – the slippery movement of blood between his fingers slowly congealing. Despite his position and reputation, Mycroft had never participated in the killing of another in such an... intimate fashion. Oh, he'd given orders... sent in teams for any number of operations that had necessitated lethal force. Early in his career, during his requisite field work, he'd dispatched no fewer than five hostile forces; three with a pistol, one with a rapier, and one with, unexpected though it was, a nineteenth century silver candlestick. All of them heat of the moment and all of them in preservation of either himself or his team. But this was... This was none of those things. This was an execution.

 

Strange. He felt... nothing.

 

No, that wasn't entirely true. He felt something but... he wasn't certain what it was. If absence of emotion could qualify he felt that in spades. He'd have expected anything from horror to glee. This blankness was astoundingly... dull... for lack of a better descriptor.

 

His journey down the hall soon led to the gents. Funny – he hadn't actually planned this as a destination but could now see the value in a visit. He elbowed through the door and made for the taps; shoes echoing a hard sound against the tile. There hadn't been a great deal of blood; not even when he'd pulled the blade back out again. There was a smear on the heel of his palm and a bit more coating three fingers. As well, a few drops had begun to stain the cuff of his shirt.

 

He washed – the red thinning to pink in the porcelain basin. He'd never much cared for the soap in this facility. Lavender scented foam that tended to ooze up his wrists no matter how much care he took. He shook off his fingers before shutting off the water with his elbow. Peeling paper, sheet by sheet from the dispenser, he patted his hands dry before giving his suit an appraising look in the mirror. Everything in order save for the watered down blood stains on his shirt cuff. However, those were hidden by his jacket and he'd dispose of the shirt once he reached his office. He lifted his eyes, finally, to his face. His cheeks were wet. It was so startling that, at first, he couldn't make sense of it. Why, in God's name, would he be weeping? After all, he felt nothing...

 

 _Shock._ Yes, of course. Weakness followed revelation and he braced both hands on the edge of the counter – his left thumb resting in a small pool of water. He felt a tremor in his shoulders – noting how cold the room felt. Overhead there was a muffled tick before the ventilation kicked on – increasing the sense of chill in the confining space.

 

Sherlock had called out for him. He may not have been there, but Mycroft could hear that broken plea, just the same – a whisper against the night – against the monsters – the tiny child begging for his big brother to save him.

 

“ _...Mycroft...”_

 

His right hand lifted to his eyes – feeling hot moisture seep across his palm. Sucking in a rasping breath, Mycroft gave in to the wracking sobs. _Forgive me, Sherlock..._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how long I've wanted to get this chapter posted! While the writing of it is fairly recent, the plan has been in the cards almost from the beginning. I have gone back and forth a bit on the "how". At one point, a "no-name" character was going to be the one to shiv Gruner in the yard with "regards from Mr. Holmes" but I couldn't stand having it be so impersonal. Not for someone who had done what Gruner did. Giving Greenhill a bigger role was a bit of a happy inspiration that I think is exactly what was needed. I never liked that Mycroft was carrying the full weight of responsibility for what happened and Greenhill was the perfect candidate for the sort of jerk to put everything into play for his own agenda. 
> 
> I don't know how many more chapters remain but we ARE closing in on the end very rapidly. HUGE thanks to everyone reading, reviewing, and leaving kudos! You're the best!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues to cope - though the demons are loud and persistent. Mycroft handles a small problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO so sorry for the long delay in posting! This chapter was an absolute beast - specifically due to the final segment. I knew what needed to happen but getting it all together was far more challenging than the portion of the story proceeding it! As ever, thank all of you, tremendously, for reading and leaving kudos and comments! You are what keeps this alive and you are, absolutely, the reason it has so many chapters and has managed to reach a point of nearly being completed! Getting a comment in my inbox is probably the single most thrilling thing and I really hope this chapter makes up for the rough one that came before! Not much further to go! Just a few threads to tie up! Again, I'm over the moon at the response and I really hope you enjoy this chapter!

Somewhere, his mother had a very extensive list detailing those things with which Sherlock either did not like or was woefully deficient. Child minding rated as both. However, there were three things which necessitated him doing so that particular morning. The first; John was presiding over a minor flu epidemic at the clinic and wouldn't be back to the flat until at least half 4. The second; Molly was dissecting her way through exactly three alleged murder victims and was up to her elbows in viscera; pleasant but also unhelpful imagery given his current, beleaguered, status. God, he missed murders. The third; Mrs. Hudson's hip pain somehow meant she was incapacitated. That she was fully functional in all other ways, for whatever inane reason, did not seem to factor into an ability to coo and feed and change a nappy. If those herbal soothers of hers weren't up to the task, double the intake. Hardly genius thinking, that.

 

Those complaints hovered somewhere left of central, however, as Sherlock stood just before the threshold into the kitchen. Dummy in one hand, plush blanket in the other, his preparations for putting her into her cot abruptly sailed away without him.

 

Rosie giggled as a thick glob of something dark and gritty trickled down her chin and spattered on the floor amidst a similarly composed mess. The same substance coated the lower half of her face, her hands, and a good portion of her jim-jams.

 

“Watson, are you eating... coffee grounds?”

 

In answer, the toddler lapped at her hand, shuddering against either the taste or the texture, and giggled again. “Dat uppa, Shoo-Shoo!” Her pronunciation of cuppa was scarcely better than his name. Strive, though he would, proper English eluded her. If it wasn't for John and his damnable attachment to her broken tongue they'd be much farther along with her articulation.

 

“I was gone exactly thirty-eight seconds!” Setting aside the blanket and dummy, he approached – though he fisted his hands several times – reluctant to touch the massacre. He was also able to take in more of the murder scene; toppled bin, scattered refuse, day old coffee filter... Were children naturally vile or was Watson a special case? He couldn't fathom doing the same as a baby. Mycroft, however...

 

“Well, that throws a spanner in the works. Putting you down for a kip is, clearly, out.” Naturally boisterous; high on caffeine and mayhem she would be absolutely shirty in about ten minutes.

 

Calling for Mrs. Hudson was an option, certainly. However, once he factored the requisite paddy, as well as the time wasted with her shuffling gait up the stairs, John would have returned and discovered exactly how inept his flatmate was with the care of his child. It was a near thing but pride won out in the end. And thus came the ruin of many a man; pride.

 

Armed with several soaked flannels, Sherlock set about the business of wiping spent coffee from the face and arms of the wriggling banshee.

 

A bit more time saw her changed, both nappy and jim-jams, and the predicted strop had begun to set in rather forcefully. “No, Shoo-Shoo! Want, waaaaaaaaaant!” Voice rising to an ear-ringing pitch – enough that Sherlock turned his head in a wince. Articulation fled along with her normally even temper – though John had often pointed out that his daughter was not yet ready for full sentences.

 

“You may not have the Büchner flask. It is quite fragile and in your questionable hold I fear the result would be a disaster of unfathomable proportions.” It wasn't like him to be so excessively hyperbolic. However, in this instance, the sentiment was warranted. He'd seen what the child could do to a jar of peanut butter.

 

Her rebuttal was another shriek, a sharp twist of her body that suggested the disturbing flexibility of a feline, before her foot slammed into his pelvis.

 

Two things he was immediately grateful for. She wasn't wearing any shoes and she did not have longer legs. Still, the pain managed to leave him winded enough the he forewent attempting to carry her and allowed her to furiously bolt up the stairs to her room.

 

Of course, that's when John sent a text.

 

_**Just checking in. How are you and Rosie?** _

 

The impulse to ignore was fleeting. As a father, John had managed to develop an excess of anxiety regarding the ongoing state of his offspring. Too long a delay and Sherlock's phone will be beset by a string of messages that will rapidly descend into parental panic. Gripping his mobile he tapped out a reply that encompassed both his irritation as well as the squalling tantrum one floor up.

 

_**Fine. We're out of chocolate biscuits** _

 

The following three texts he _did_ ignore. Having established proof of life he felt less than compelled to engage in further nattering.

 

Ten minutes wandered by before it occurred to him that the flat had gone silent. “Oh, Buggar!” he breathed.

 

His long stride carried him upstairs in seconds – bypassing John's room for the former storage wardrobe now converted into a baby room.

 

Rosie was asleep on the floor.

 

Perhaps a more sentimental caretaker would coo over the scene and label it something disgustingly diabetic. Surrounding the child, in a five foot radius, was a halo of talc. The emptied, economy sized container, lay fetched up against the foot of her cot. To Sherlock, the display resembled little more than a passed out smackhead wallowing in kilo of product. At least it was baby powder, this time. He felt no compulsion to wake her for another bath. Instead, wary of her twitching limbs, he gathered the blanket from her cot and spread it over her. The double thick padding beneath the rug made for a soft surface and he had no doubt that she would be comfortable where she was.

 

Back in the sitting room he found that John had left an additional four texts.

 

He rolled his eyes and bothered with continuing the dialogue if it meant hurrying things along.

 

_**If you've no more tongues to depress nor arses to swab then come home and care for your child** _

 

John's text back was a single image. Sherlock hadn't realized there was an emoji quite that crass.

 

Of course, with Rosie now sleeping off her caffeine high, Sherlock felt less urgency to find a more qualified minder. However, with peace restored, there came with it the thumping pressure at the back of his brain. The stimulus of his Work had always kept it at bay, for the most part. That Work, however, had been in short supply the last few months. Not an unusual circumstance, of course; he'd once had a dry spell of 29 days that had culminated in a massive row between himself, John, and five members of the Fire Brigade who'd only just managed to prevent the blaze in the basement flat from taking down the entire building (their assertion, of course, the “blaze” had barely consumed a quarter of the flat and with the amount of mold present in the room the likelihood of it roaming farther was minuscule). His point; that there wouldn't have been any fire had John not compromised the oxygen saturation of the room, mid-experiment, by insisting on opening the door to investigate the “odd smell”; had been ignored by all present. Whether by fortune or his brother's involvement (Sherlock heavily favored the latter in that scenario – fortune was never so fortuitous) there was a case, the following day, requiring his eye.

 

Mycroft. Not one whom Sherlock would ever ascribe the bearing of a heralding angel – rather the opposite, really. Still, the buffet of good news had made his physical presence, at least, moderately bearable. The git had, no doubt, anticipated dramatic caterwauling or maniacal laughter. Why else impose upon them for something as easily shared within the confines of a text?

 

_It had been a week since Mycroft had stopped by the flat. While his visits had become uncharacteristically regular in their frequency – his appearance, that day, had been unanticipated. He had, after all, been there just a day previous to deplete their store of biscuits._

 

_Helping himself to a third ginger nut, Mycroft took a small bite before sipping his tea._

 

“ _Giving up on the diet, are we? Mummy will be so disappointed.”_

 

_The lack of a returning quip sent a thrill of distress through Sherlock's chest. John appeared to sense it as well – his brief smirk vanishing._

 

“ _Mycroft?”_

 

“ _Alden Gruner is dead. Suicide, apparently.” He chewed the rest of his biscuit before downing a gulp of tea._

 

_For John, the unease fled from his eyes to be replaced, instead, with a ferocious intensity. “And this is bad news? Please; **please** tell me that creature suffered.”_

 

_Seeming lost in his own thoughts, Mycroft raised an eyebrow – eyes focused somewhere inward. “Yes.”_

 

_Sherlock, though, gripped his teacup just shy of shattering the porcelain. A bad habit, of late. “Only this was not a suicide.” He narrowed his eyes, “was it.”_

 

_His brother's attention lifting back to the present, Mycroft didn't so much as blink. “No.” With no trace of conflict he finished his tea._

 

_The answer was expected – though John was still taken aback and spent a few moments gaping. “You... Mycroft; you're saying you actually ki...”_

 

“ _I handled a problem, Doctor Watson. Nothing more.” Spoken in that rushed, Holmes way that John was well accustomed to, Mycroft swirled the remaining tea in his cup – eyes once more drifting into space. “It was long overdue.”_

 

_The three of them remained silent after that. Mycroft, ever enigmatic, was unreadable. John was, by turns, troubled yet also, blazingly; almost viciously, triumphant._

 

_Well Sherlock could hardly feel otherwise, himself. Should have, rather. Yet, the only sensation, that he could label, was cold._

 

_When his brother had finally risen to leave, Sherlock, for a horrifying moment, had felt some impulse thrum in his brain to acknowledge what his brother had shared. Save for tremendously rare and truly dire instances, the Holmes brothers did not embrace one another. The one instance of weakness, some weeks prior, had been the first time since Sherlock was nine and Mycroft was sixteen that he'd been hugged by his brother; albeit in the throes of some fever or other that he'd picked up at Uni. Given that it had been illness driven and, subsequently, had led to Sherlock developing the same malady, he'd hardly seen the gesture as affectionate. More like biological warfare. How typical._

 

_As it was, the impulse passed rather quickly and Mycroft had gone. The following three hours had seen John asking in a variety of fumbling ways if Sherlock was “alright”. The mundane inquiries were finally stopped by Sherlock snatching up his violin and assailing the room with something less musical and more ear-splitting. John had, thankfully, taken to his room and let it rest._

 

The ambiance of the room came back to him in pieces as Sherlock inhaled and sat up from the comfortable slump he'd lapsed into while in thought. It had been the sound of muffled voices at the foot of the staircase – enough to identify whom but not clear enough to pick up actual conversation. Not that he couldn't deduce that with ease. Hardly worth the expended brain cells.

 

A single set of footsteps ascended. Still nursing her aching hip, Mrs. Hudson would have sent the visitor on alone rather than attempt the flight.

 

The gentle, tentative knock, followed. “Sherlock?”

 

He had risen, already, without the thought to do so – unlatching the door before she'd managed more than his name. “Molly Hooper.” Anticipation and... fear? What a strange conflict in his chest! Not only this assault of sentiment but the physical as well; damp forehead and hands, a disconcerting tightening of his throat, and an odd weight beneath his lungs that stole the volume from his breaths.

 

“John said you had been left all day to watch Rosie and asked if I'd mind stopping in for a bit.”

 

Sherlock felt the incomprehensible urge to clear his throat. “Yes; she's... uh... well.”

 

They were, of course, still standing over the threshold.

 

“Tea?” His voice was a rasp and he swallowed hard – hoping the abominable symptoms cleared quickly. This was intolerable!

 

“That sounds nice, yes.” The excuse to leave the door allowed her the chance to enter. She hung her light jacket while Sherlock went on to the kitchen – listening to her movements about the flat while he tuned out his own preparations – boiling water not requiring his focused attention, after all.

 

“How is Rosie? Its been weeks since I've seen her.” Molly had finally made her way around to the kitchen – leaning against the cabinet at Sherlock's back.

 

“Sleeping, thank heaven. I had been considering sedation.” He turned; catching her raised eyebrow and slight lift of her lip. “Oh – you meant that in the predominant sense.” He wavered on acceptable adjectives – reminded, as always, why he detested 'small talk'. “She's... _(sticky, belligerent, alive)_ well.”

 

Molly hummed in comment and Sherlock tapped his fingers against the counter – facing the simmering water that had yet to even approach boiling. Little else to do with his hands he fussed the arrangement of the mugs and tea packets.

 

“And how have you been feeling?” The dreaded yet inevitable question. There was a time his response would have come easily to him. No; that wasn't right. The response came easily to him, still. The difficulty lie in whether to allow it. He had already hurt Molly... again. It was a pattern he did not wish to continue. He sucked his lower lip while his mind carried out some maintenance with regards to Molly Hooper. After some consideration, he added Mrs. Hudson, as well. It would save time, later, he reasoned. A plaque was placed above them with two words chiseled into the marble. “Be kind”. It would have to do; he was still unable to access the deeper structures of his mind and had set about building what would best be described as a shanty town round the perimeter.

 

He turned towards Molly, again; resting his hands on the chair back before him. “I...” he breathed out and turned his eyes to the table, instead. “No day has been perfectly easy... I suppose. But I am well enough.” He faced her again; her hands were clasped tight before her; her whole body tightly gathered. “And you? How have you... been?” God! Whomever had invented such pedestrian twaddle should be strung up by their arm hairs!

 

Molly shrugged and allowed a small laugh. “It's been fine. I've missed you.” Then her face reddened considerably as her eyes went wide. “At work, I mean! You and John – seeing you in the morgue, working cases...” Her jaw opened and shut and she was the one, then, to duck her head. “It's so quiet. I used to like the quiet but now...”

 

The click of the electric kettle was a welcome interruption. Sherlock set about preparing tea for them both before carrying them to the sitting room with Molly following behind. He allowed her to sit before passing her the steaming cup. Both in their chairs, they blew steam and sipped for many moments in silence.

 

Molly held her cup close to her face, even when she wasn't partaking. Her eyes had settled somewhere in the distance – a moment to realize they'd landed on his violin, just as they'd done the last time she'd sat across from him. Was this a comfortable silence? He wasn't certain. With John, they could sit for hours without speaking and never feel the inclination to do so. With Molly... well, typically they would both be working in the lab or she would be busy with an autopsy. A purely social setting was rare; far more rare when it was down to just the two of them. Nearly always there was another person about to carry conversation; allowing Sherlock to cut in as the mood struck. This was exactly why he avoided domestic scenes.

 

Now, however, was not the time to withdraw. There was a balance, due, between them. His thumb rubbed against the smooth mug in his hands. How quickly he felt fear, now. Of all emotions it proved the most vexing. For all that proponents may point their long fingers at its benefits; sharpened senses, faster reflexes, greater blood flow; the same benefits could be found in the adrenalin surge of an intellectual puzzle without the negative aspects of shortened breath, shaking limbs, and sweating. How to begin, how to begin...

 

“Molly, I...” He rested his cup on the arm of his chair – tapping his finger against the rim for a moment, before settling both hands on his knees. His attention stayed on the rug where the stain from spilled tea had never fully come out. How strange, that his tongue could be so dry after half a cup of Darjeeling. He crooked his fingers against his kneecaps.

 

“I am indebted to you.” He heard her movements as she shifted in her seat – though didn't allow a long pause lest she choose to speak. “You have been both a confidant and a wise consul and in repayment for that I...” He dug his thumbs into the tops of his thighs – humiliated by the tremor that had seized in his throat, “I demanded of you that which I had no right.” He finally lifted his eyes – though her face was blurred from his compromised vision. “I cannot excuse my actions towards you. I cannot ask forgiveness. It was unforgivable...”

 

Now Molly set her cup down, as well. “Sherlock, what are you talking...” And then she blinked. “Are you talking about...” she blushed, then, vibrantly, “the kiss?” She shrugged; looking away and sliding her sleeves up to her elbows and off her wrists. “I mean... I know you didn't really mean it, but, it... it was... nice...”

 

Sherlock frowned; lips twisting down. “ _Nice_!?” He nearly sputtered. Unable to remain seated any longer he pushed away from his chair to pace; arms rising up from his sides to gesture in agitation. “You needn't coddle my feelings!” He spat the last word as though he'd encountered a beetle in a ginger nut. “I practically attacked you! I threw myself at you with no consideration for your choices or desires! I forced you to meet my needs as though you were nothing more than a body to serve me and in that way I am no better than your rap...” He swallowed; snapping his jaw shut to clip the word in half. He could not burden her with his shame regardless that to apologize meant doing exactly that. He neither sought nor deserved her mercy but, as usual, he was making an utter hash of expressing that sentiment. If there were a way in which to send her from his flat without compounding his offenses he would do so. As it was, his mind had already begun to spin away from him. Gasping, now, his earlier fears had eclipsed into panic; cold, wet, crowding hallways and echoed breaths...

 

When she rose and stepped towards him he backed, rapidly – hands up to ward her away. “I can't, I'm so sorry, I can't... I can't do this... I can't do this...” His words wobbled and he was humiliated to feel tears, once more, cascading down his cheeks. He pressed his eyes into his hands but they were poor barriers. There was no wall at his back to hold him up so he sank to a crouch. It was an untenable position, however. His knees shook and he dropped to his backside.

 

Too spent to escape, he didn't attempt motion when he felt Molly kneeling before him. “Sherlock, you are nothing like him; nothing! Don't you remember what I told you? Whatever you needed. You could have had anything and I had freely offered – whether a warm place to sleep or a cup of tea or... or anything – anything, Sherlock. I would give you anything...” Her breath hitched, then, too and he could hear the tears in her voice. “And, out of all of those choices...” She sniffed, words trembling, “you chose love.”

 

Her hands, softly, so softly, rested against the fingers guarding his face. “I have never felt more loved... not since my father...” She swallowed, and managed to ease his hands away from his face – until his eyes could meet hers. “And I never feel more safe... than I do with you.”

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

Anthea had given her report the day previously. Her investigation had been thorough and damning. Set into motion while Gruner had been gasping out his last breaths on his cell floor, the first hints of impropriety had been uncovered before his corpse had even cooled. Greenhill had hid his tracks well. However, he hadn't counted on Anthea. Confident in his own abilities he had dismissed the possibility that anyone would dare look into his records, track his movements, dig into his calls... To a man like Greenhill; Anthea was a pretty distraction and little more than an office girl hired to be silent, attractive, and competent enough to brew a decent cuppa. Well... that was, of course, the point. While she and Mycroft had trained together at Fort Monckton it was Anthea who had shown a genius for digital espionage; a skill which she had labored to pass on to both Mycroft and Sherlock. While never as good as Anthea, Sherlock, at seventeen, had shown to have considerable talents in those areas as well. In fact, Mycroft had been approached by his superiors to bring his younger brother into the fold. He had been adamant that his brother's addictions would make him unfit for duty; never once analyzing why it mattered, so much, to keep Sherlock away from intelligence work. Years later, he would remember Serbia, and battle his own need to keep refilling his brandy glass.

 

With everything he needed, now, gathered on his desk, Mycroft was left to wait for his guest.

 

Scant minutes later, there was a knock just before Anthea opened the door. “Mr. Holmes? Sir Rodric Greenhill is here to see you.”

 

Greenhill pushed his bulk past the woman rather than wait for her to step aside. Without comment, Anthea retreated and shut the door behind her. Mycroft stood from his desk – reaching across to shake hands before gesturing. “Have a seat, if you would. Anthea can bring you something; tea, perhaps? Or brandy?”

 

“No, nothing, thank you.” Choosing one of the leather chairs directly across from the desk, Greenhill crossed an ankle over his knee. “I'd rather we get right into why you've called me here. You should know that this was a bit of an inconvenience, Mycroft.”

 

“Of course; my apologies. Thank you for taking the time.” Mycroft slid a heavy file across the desk before leaning back, hands folded across his blotter. “I think you'll find we've uncovered something of significant interest, to you, however.”

 

“Oh?” Rotating the unmarked folder, Greenhill flipped back the cover and began to read. Less than thirty seconds of scanning his eyebrows began to draw together. “Holmes, what it this?”

 

Tapping his fingertips against one another, Mycroft watched the other man without a trace of expression. “I think you'll find paragraph sixteen to be particularly enlightening.”

 

Mycroft made no movement while Greenhill, clearly, reread the aforementioned paragraph several times; face going pale.

 

“W-what...” he shook his head; fingers clutching the folder and bending the cover. “What, in God's name, is this supposed to be, Holmes?”

 

Mycroft tipped his head. “A transcript. Between you and Carlotta Alexis Magnussen... _before_ she kidnapped my brother. That was you, of course; and using your own name, no less. And why not? After all, you'd been informing to Magnussen for years. Ever since that incident in Turkey in, when was it, 04'?” He clucked his tongue. “He'd owned a struggling newspaper, at the time. Hardly worth noting. And, yet, a scant three years later, he'd managed to buy the property that would become his new empire. How was that possible, do you think?”

 

Greenhill dropped the folder back on the desk. “A benefactor, perhaps. Possibly a dead relative; it matters not, either way. However it came about, your brother saw to it to render such questions moot.”

 

A thin smile was an indulgent allowance as Mycroft tapped the folder Greenhill had abandoned. “A benefactor, yes. Someone you know quite well, in fact. Thomas Combs. As I understand it, he works directly beneath you as a liaison with MI5, correct?” His mobile vibrated on his desk. Mycroft tapped for the messages; reading them before dismissing them from his screen.

 

Shrugging, Greenhill sat back in his seat, hands flat on the arm rests. “What has that to do with me? He may be in our employ but that hardly means he was carrying out any orders from above. As you well know, one cannot always keep a weather eye on those in their employ. Be they staff or... family member.” He smirked, for only a moment, before sobering with a touch of irritation. “As to Carlotta, I have no secrets to our association. She was the wife to a man I'd considered, loosely, a friend; nothing more. Unlike your own, dear brother, I wasn't in the habit of delivering sensitive materials directly into his hands.”

 

Unruffled, Mycroft flipped back the cover of the folder – idly turning pages while he spoke. “You seem to think you know a good deal about what my brother may or may not have done with regards to Charles Magnussen. I seem to recall that such information was privy to a select few.”

 

A thick chuckle regurgitated from Greenhill's throat. “You think the truth of what your brother had done wouldn't have made the rounds, no matter how tightly you'd turned the lid on that little scandal? How many people were involved in the fairy tale you'd created, hm? Certainly all of the agents who'd witnessed the scene, first hand; not to mention the individuals who would have cut together that cute little recording of the event.” He leaned forward, suddenly. “Odd, that nobody thought to ask why Magnussen, who hadn't been armed, had been shot by agents trained to handle far worse.”

 

Mycroft glanced up from the folder. “Isn't it, just?”

 

Greenhill began to drum his nails while Mycroft continued to leaf through pages. The loudest sound, in the following three minutes, came when the forced air unit switched on.

 

The words that followed the whispering air were nearly lost in the shuffle of paper.

 

“Bloody git deserved it...”

 

“I'm sorry, what was that?” Fingers frozen with one page lifted, Mycroft stared towards the man across from him. A moment, staring back, and Greenhill huffed and shook his head.

 

“You all think you're clever, of course. Running circles around everyone else, those brilliant Holmes brothers, as though shite wouldn't stick to you.” He sat up more; hands curling around the scrolled wood terminals in his grip. “Like to make the rest of us out to be fools; toeing the line while you let your brother dance around the due consequences of his actions as though he's fucking royalty!” He grunted, his laugh a single bark. “Well consequences have a way of catching up, don't they.”

 

Allowing the pages to fall open, before him, Mycroft steepled his fingers. “Yes... they do, indeed.” One long finger extending down, he pointed towards the center of a page.

 

“This is a transcript of a phone call, made from your office, on November twelfth of last year.” He sat up a bit; finger tracing the lines of text. “RG: 'He's leaving his flat. Are you prepared?' CM: 'Everything is in place. Just be certain to hold up your end of the deal.' RG: 'The helicopter will be ready to take you to Heathrow once you're finished.' CM: 'You're certain there's enough time?' RG: 'All precautions have been taken. His tail was diverted and there will be no interruptions.' CM: 'Thank you for your assistance.' RG: 'You can thank me with a recording. The usual entertainment has become predictable...'” Mycroft shut the cover over the pages. “Of course, there was more but I feel the point has been made.”

 

Stripped of color, Greenhill swallowed around something the size of a grapefruit. If there was anything to say it was lost in the outrush of air that passed his lips.

 

Picking up the verbal slack, Mycroft tipped back in his seat – fingertips meeting once more. “A search of your property was carried out this morning. An encoded data stick was recovered from your bedroom safe. On it was a single recording.” Mycroft stood, suddenly, looming over his desk at the man still sunk in his chair. “You know what it was, of course. It had been handled so much that the writing on the side had worn away. You would have watched it every night; careful to return it the safe before sleeping. Sometimes, however, you would take it out simply to hold it while running your thumb along the edge. It was a dangerous and damning bit of evidence; oh, but you simply could not help yourself. You found it intoxicating – an addiction – a solace to dredge forth whenever one of those damned Holmes men got too clever – too full of themselves.” Rounding his desk, Mycroft took slow steps until he towered over Greenhill; his thumbs gliding back and forth along his index fingers. “How empowering for you... watching my brother facing his torturer... knowing, all the while, that you had a recording, in your home, of Alden Gruner raping him.”

 

Greenhill shook his head. Chuckled. Pushed slowly to his feet even as the door behind him opened to admit Anthea along with three other agents.

 

“Don't try to be sanctimonious, Mycroft; it's not a good look for you. You were just as much a puppet of Charles as I was.” He smiled. “At least I got something worthwhile out of the bargain. Stick me in some bunker, I don't care. I'll never forget the look of arrogance being ripped from your brother's face. The great Sherlock Holmes... bawlin' his fucking eyes out while getting shagged like some cheap rent boy.”

 

Leaning in close; lips a hair's breadth from Greenhill's ear, Mycroft hissed at barely a whisper. “For your future, Mr. Greenhill, it would be in your best interests if you never sully my brother's name by letting it pass across your filthy lips, again.” He nodded to the silent agents on either side of the man. Without a word, they escorted him out of the office.

 

Remaining behind, Anthea clasped her hands at her waist – mobile uncharacteristically absent.

 

“Will you tell Sherlock?”

 

Walking to the cabinet behind his desk, Mycroft poured them, each, a tumbler of scotch. “There is nothing of which he needs to be made aware.” Walking back he passed her a tumbler before returning to lean his hips against his desk.

 

Hesitating, just for a moment, Anthea cradled her scotch; watching the alcohol move within the stout tumbler. “You watched it...” Her eyes lifted; fingers playing back and forth across the smooth glass. The silence in the room had a hum that worked its way through the back molars.

 

Standing before his desk, his attention pointed somewhere inward, Mycroft didn't speak. A haze of something moved across his eyes. Working down a swallow, a glint of wet streaked alongside a trembling jaw. Gulping the alcohol, he sniffed and turned back towards his desk; resting down his glass before easing into his chair.

 

“Thank you, Anthea. I will let know know if there is anything else I require.”

 

Leaving her unfinished scotch on the table near the door, Anthea nodded. “Of course, sir.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ghost from the distant past makes an appearance.
> 
> Sherlock and John have an important conversation.
> 
> Some deep subjects are aired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags are always crucial and while this chapter doesn't have the ugliness of some previous ones, there are highly sensitive and possibly triggering conversations.

One more week and he'd have gone utterly round the bend, he was certain. It had been a close thing. Christ, another afternoon stuck listening to Mrs. Hudson bloviate about which acquaintance had what sort of aliment in which body part he'd have taken terminal means to end his suffering. Mental escape no longer an easy option he'd often been forced to actually listen to her prattle; filling the free space in his brain with so much flotsam it was any wonder he could retain a single, rational, thought.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

His right foot skidded on a river of scree built up at the base of a crumbling terraced house. He grabbed hold of the surrounding scaffolding to keep his footing and pushed on after the fleeing subject; aware of John racing after them both but too far back to be of any use. Well, he could scarcely slow his stride lest their suspected killer escape! John would catch up. He had a habit of being where he was needed.

 

He was not going to escape! Not this time!

 

His slip had cost him crucial seconds and upon reaching the far side of the building he found his quarry vanished. No, not far but merely out of sight. There were few areas where he could have gone; either he'd scaled the retaining wall towards the tracks or he'd ducked into one of the dilapidated flats. The building was closer, therefore more likely. However it was also a bit obvious as well as being a dead end; what with most of the doors and windows boarded shut. The marshalling yard, however, offered numerous egress points once one made it across the conflux of the railway wherein he would be out in the open and given the man's exceptional height it would be a simple matter gaining entry over the wall. He had already started forward as John finally rushed up behind him.

 

“Where is he; where did he go?”

 

“Railway.” Racing towards the cement wall, Sherlock grasped the damp, crumbling edge to pull himself over; John having rather a worse time of it but brute strength won out, ultimately, and he rolled over the top – gasping as he leaned over his knees.

 

“He can't have gone far but we still need to hurry. Once he makes it to the far side there'll be no catching him!” Lifting one hand he scrubbed rainwater off his cheek – though he left a streak of dirt behind near his hairline.

 

Sparing only an eye roll, Sherlock ran ahead while John's comment carried in his wake.

 

“I'll head East then, shall I?” Obviously!

 

Carriages and flat wagons filled most of the rails; into the hundreds. Any number of disastrous falls threatened even the most sure-footed, Sherlock was still loathe to slow his stride even at the risk of catching a toe on the tangle of metal underfoot. Impossible to track their quarry as the spaces between rails were a seeping mire of blackish mud; the metal strips, themselves, slick from the intermittent rain so he depended upon instinct and experience to lead the way. There was little time to be clever therefore their murderer would take the fastest route of escape. Only three trains appeared ready to get underway; the rest queued up to be loaded with various cargo before heading down the rails.

 

Sherlock disregarded the first locomotive. The carriages were sealed tight with no easy means of access. The second, however, had several open goods wagons – their insides dark and half filled with jumbles of parcels in varying size and shape. He glanced at the first two only to pass them by. The third... there was a scrape of mud on the threshold just inside the wide opening. Could have been caused by a railway worker, of course, but there had been no activity upon entering the yard and the mark appeared quite fresh...

 

The interior was dark, as with the other wagons; made even more impenetrable with the overcast skies. Keeping to the side of the wagon, Sherlock edged close; steps silent on the soaked gravel. If his quarry was, indeed, holed up inside he was just as silent – hidden away in hopes of avoiding discovery or, possibly, keeping a wary eye out for his pursuers. Sherlock flattened his feet against the ground when he was within three feet of the opening. Save for the single scrape of mud, there were no other tracks...

 

Hands wrapped around his throat from behind and he only just got his right hand up; the grip instantly crushing his own fingers against his windpipe. Thrashing backward he swung his left elbow – feeling the impact but making no headway against the giant figure that held him tight against a solid chest. Mouth gaping, he thrashed all the more fervently as he felt his soles lift away from the earth – toes madly feeling for purchase as gray walls seeped into his peripheral sight. Panic hammered his chest though no sound could make it past the crush in his throat. He could hear the chains. Oh God...

 

 

 

◦

 

 

Bleeding idiot!

 

Himself or Sherlock; he wasn't certain which of them was the worse. Lestrade had been called, of course. He'd won that argument specifically by doing it in spite of Sherlock's protests. Unbelievable that Sherlock's white whale had actually surfaced after so many years! Naturally the reference had been lost on the man nor was John keen on providing context lest he become Ishmael in that scenario. Already backtracking after ten minutes wasted on the wrong path – a wide pit of mud and standing water had been enough of an indication that their man wouldn't have traveled that way. Besides, all things being relative, this was Sherlock. Of course he was in danger.

 

A slick rail, underfoot, and John's left leg skidded out from beneath him with alarming speed – no time to brace himself he slammed flat to the ground with a blunted shout. Winded, he wheezed and rolled to his back – raindrops peppering his face and blurring his vision while he pulled hard breaths into tight lungs. The burn was agony as he built back his capacity before he was able to roll to his knees. A shake of the head scattered disorientation and he was rather wobbly in regaining his feet – forward progress a shaky affair at the threatening ache in his knee. Only a few stumbles, however, and he finally resumed a fast, if a bit more cautious, run.

 

He debated yelling for his friend as he clambered over the coupling between two open wagons stacked with machine parts. Granted, it would be a miracle if Sherlock could even hear him over the thickening rain – pebble sized drops hammering on the tops of enclosed wagons with the cacophony of a thousand drums.

 

Slipping around the back end of a detached engine, John wiped slick from his eyes, turned right for the next row of wagons, and felt the blood drain from his face.

 

Gun in hand in a heartbeat he held it, dead steady, on the creature currently throttling his best friend.

 

“Dzundza! Let him go! Drop him or I kill you dead!” Echo, of so many years previous, saying almost those exact words.

 

Sherlock clawed at one massive hand; his face puffy and flushed bright red as he gaped – eyes wide with panic. His body blocked most of Dzundza's form and the massive man knew it. Without speaking, he heaved Sherlock another foot higher. Sherlock convulsed, mouth moving without words... and his one hand dropped to hang at his side.

 

“Shit! God dammit, let him go!!”

 

Without warning Sherlock's left leg suddenly swung backward with brutal force – heel smashing Dzundza between the legs. Howling, the large man threw his captive against the side of a wagon – Sherlock smacking with a meaty WHAK before crumpling to the ground. Gun still raised, John held it on the giant – aim steady on his chest.

 

“It's over, Golem! Don't you fucking move or I swear to G...!”

 

Dzundza charged.

 

Without hesitation, John fired three rounds into his broad chest... and nothing happened. _Body armor..._

 

Eyes going wide, he had no time to dodge as the massive man slammed into him – sending him flying. It was the astronomy center all over again! Unable to scramble away from the unnatural reach of the man, John rolled on his back after snatching a handful of mud and flinging it towards the surging form. A mix of wet grit and pebbles smacked against the Golem's face but missed his eyes when he turned his head. Not a perfect distraction but enough for John to get his knees beneath him. And that was all the further he managed before iron hard arms wrapped around his middle and threw him, twice his own length, across the tracks. Landing hard he felt at least one rib go with a dull snap – huffing out a grunt at the burn roaring through his side. He was still in the same broken sprawl when Dzundza fell on him – giant hands clamping over his mouth and nose. John couldn't so much as buck – one free hand slapping the earth around him for his gun while the other scraped white lines along the crushing grip.

 

And then everything stopped with a ringing clang.

 

Dzundza straightened; loosening his hold to turn his broad shoulders, and through his gasping and desperate breaths, John saw Sherlock. Standing behind the giant, blood across one cheek with glazed eyes and neck a mottle of bruising red, he still gripped the rusty carriage caster he slammed into the back of Dzundza's head. To no avail.

 

Coughing most of his lung volume, John could only claw at Dzundza as he slowly stood; oversized features spreading in a grin as he turned towards his original target. Sherlock raised the metal wheel; Eyes wide as the Golem rose to full height. Horrified, John could do nothing as, with blinding speed, Dzundza backhanded Sherlock with a tight fist and sent him, once more, tumbling to the ground. The caster rolled away; out of reach. Meanwhile, dazed but still conscious, Sherlock began to crawl towards a stack of oily timbers. Dzundza was on him before he could manage six inches.

 

“... _don't... please_...”

 

John's heart tore at the shaking plea. A glimpse of Sherlock's eyes proved his friend was no longer at the train yard. Golem had Sherlock pinned before John could so much as roll to his chest – forcing back the pain as he searched frantically for his weapon. There! Half buried in blackened gravel, he snatched it free and pushed himself upright – both hands holding the weapon on the hunched figure.

 

“Let him go or I will shoot you!”

 

Dzundza, without a flicker of acknowledgement, slowly squeezed his hands.

 

John fired.

 

This time, the Golem howled in pain as the bullet penetrated his hip. John immediately stepped closer; raising the gun but resisting the temptation to press it against sweaty skin. He wasn't an idiot, after all, and he wasn't about to have it batted out of his fingers a third time.

 

“Get away from him, NOW! Or, I swear to Christ, the next one goes in your fucking head!”

 

This time, his warning was heeded. He didn't dare so much as blink. Dzundza had made a repeated habit of escape; often with painful repercussions. Wound aside John had no doubt that a fraction of inattention would lead to losing him once more. As it was, staying attentive was proving to be a complicated task. Behind the hulking killer, Sherlock remained in a heap on the ground.

 

Funny how minutes could seem as hours. There couldn't have been more than ten minutes gone before John heard the first shout. “Over here!” Shouted back; bringing, thank God, the face of Lestrade as well as half a dozen of the Met along with him.

 

“Think he's got a broken pelvis.” John suggested; surreptitiously stowing his weapon as Dzundza was secured. “Took a bad fall.” Lestrade raised an eyebrow but otherwise said nothing. The moment he was free to do so, John hurried to Sherlock and knelt beside him, grunting at the pressure in his midsection, but overwhelmingly glad to see that he was breathing. “Come on, mate, you alright?”

 

The groan in reply was a positive sign; though John didn't like the look of that gash – made worse when Dzundza had belted him. At least his breathing didn't sound compromised despite the nasty looking bruises ringing his throat. Still, John wasn't comfortable going back to the flat as there was every chance he could develop swelling that could compromise his breathing.

 

Eyes still squeezed tight, Sherlock pushed his heels against the ground; fingers dragging across the soot darkened rocks. “Can you look at me, please?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “Dizzy...”

 

“With the size of that knot on your forehead, I don't doubt it.” John replied; though not without concern. “I still need to see your pupils. I need to know if you have a concussion.”

 

“I'm fine.” Pressing both hands against his eyes, Sherlock made no effort to stand or so much as sit up. Mild concern edging into apprehension John wrapped an arm around his middle with a muted groan. Sherlock's hands dropped in an instant; squinting towards his friend with worried brows and bloodshot eyes. “You're hurt.”

 

“Of course I am, you cock! We just went toe to toe with Goliath!” Turning to slump alongside his friend, he leaned against the stack of timbers and wrapped an arm across his midsection. A moment later, he glanced at Sherlock; meeting his eyes.

 

They lost themselves to giggles.

 

Shaking his head through a battle for control, John grinned at his friend. “We fucking got him, by Christ!”

 

Smiling mouth pressed tight, Sherlock nodded. “Mm.”

 

Of course, removing the giant from the mired yard was proving to be a significant complication. No ambulance could traverse the rails and no trolley was large enough to hold him, at any rate. In the end they actually heaved Dzundza onto a pump trolley and took the rails back to the joint station where, presumably, they would commandeer a lorry to take the man to the NSY.

 

As for Sherlock, he couldn't stay in the drizzling wet; his eyes had already gone a bit glassy and John didn't like the look of those bruises.

 

His own balance a bit wobbly, John gathered his legs beneath himself and pushed to his feet. He then held out a hand; which Sherlock blinked at for several seconds. “Come on. Can you stand?”

 

The scoff was encouraging, at least. “Please.” Taking the offered hand, nonetheless, Sherlock's journey upright was quite the shaky affair; legs staggering as he tried to straighten and he was forced to sling an arm around John's shoulders or risk a tumble.

 

Were they anywhere else John would have insisted they wait for help to come to them. As it was, they either needed to get out under their own power or wait to be carried out.

 

They managed all the way to the last carriage before Sherlock pulled away; hunching alongside it to vomit into a puddle. John waved over Greg who didn't hesitate to take Sherlock's weight. The pain in John's side had only worsened in the last few steps and there was no way he'd be able to manhandle the detective much further.

 

The journey was hellish. Sherlock heaved twice more before they finally reached the edge of the yard and his color had started to go a bit grey. Leaving the two friends leaning miserably near the retaining wall, Lestrade went to fetch a car. This, of course, was when the argument started.

 

Sherlock was adamant about returning to their flat; pointing out his previous head injuries and that none had required medical intervention beyond standard pain medication and rest. An explanation about cumulative effects went nowhere so John was forced to play his last card; reminding Sherlock that he, also, was injured and didn't fancy binding his own ribs. Additionally, he had no intention of allowing Sherlock to go home alone with a possible concussion; so, it was either the hospital, or John was calling Mycroft to mind him in his stead.

 

Sherlock acquiesced, thank God, though not without sinking into a furious, yet silent, pout.

 

Unable to sit comfortably, John spent most of the ride shifting every few minutes; enough that it pulled Sherlock out of his strop. “You're hurting.”

 

Tipping his head, John eased himself to the side – immediately regretting it when the pain spiked. “Mm... a bit, yeah.” In truth there was a steadily growing burn through his side that was rapidly growing acute. Sweat broke on his hairline and when he pressed a hand against his abdomen he discovered firm flesh. “Shit...”

 

By this point Sherlock's face had gone ghost white with fear; never had been good with injury, either to himself nor others, and he was rapidly shifting into panic. “John... John, what do I do?”

 

Taking short breaths, John grasped for the edge of the seat but found Sherlock's hand instead – not able to help himself as he squeezed it tight. “No-nothing...” He gasped; closing his eyes at another swell of agony beneath his ribs.

 

“You're a policeman, Lestrade, for God's sake, drive faster!” Sherlock bellowed.

 

There was little John could do to ease his friend's mind; concentrating, as he was, on taking steady breaths. Regardless, it seemed only minutes before the car was stopping and uniformed bodies were crowding the vehicle with a trolley between them. John lost sight of Sherlock, then, his friend's anxious voice carrying after him as he was rushed inside.

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

 

Bruised liver, in addition to two broken ribs. John spent nearly two weeks in hospital; his injuries turning out to be far worse than Sherlock's – who'd only required rest and a period of observation. John had expected Sherlock to be insufferably smug about it but his friend hadn't taken a single opportunity to gloat. As to John, it was a miracle he hadn't needed extensive surgery; the procedure only requiring a couple hours to repair the bleed. The blood in his urine cleared up after a day and the remainder of time served was a good deal of uncomfortable sleeping – propped up against a mountain of pillows in an attempt to keep the pressure off his injured organ.

 

Sherlock spent part of every day in his room, during that week – the bruises on his neck fading to a sickly green-yellow. The petechial hemorrhages in his eyes were less intense but it could be another week or two before they healed completely. So, for now, he perpetually looked a bit hung over and sleep deprived – that second part undoubtedly true.

 

It was a relief to get back to 221B; John had seen little of his daughter while convalescing and that first half hour back was spent simply cuddling the toddler – father and child both needing the comfort of contact. Soon enough, however, normalcy crept into play and Rosie squirmed to escape – charging on tiny legs through the flat and determined to cause mischief.

 

Sherlock had built a fire and the two of them now sat in their usual spots; by turns watching Rosie as she settled on the rug with her toys. Mrs. H had made tea a short time ago and they each had a steaming cup and a plate of biscuits which Rosie had already pilfered; taking large bites and scattering crumbs all down her clothes and the rug.

 

John winced as he turned to set down his mug; pulling Sherlock's attention away from Rosie, who'd been feeding half of her biscuit to a plastic dinosaur. “Do you need your medication?”

 

John shook his head while rubbing lightly at his side. “I'm not due for another dose until bedtime. Just a bit of a stitch; nothing serious.”

 

Sherlock appeared less than reassured but he settled back into his chair; fingers sliding against one another in a familiar restless motion. He'd been more agitated, lately – ever since they'd captured Dzundza. The high profile apprehension had, once more, put them at the center of a media storm. There had been endless attempts for Sherlock to do an interview and the papers had been thick with stories about the return of Sherlock Holmes to the public eye after his “long convalescence”. Nobody knew what had truly happened to Sherlock – only that he had taken ill for a time, or so the story had been spun; thanks, in large part, to Mycroft's influence.

 

Rosie, now yawning, gathered up her favorite soft toy; a purple giraffe with a tiny bell inside. Waddling to John's side, she clutched at his hand. “Dada, kip.”

 

It wasn't often she asked for her afternoon lie down. When she did, she typically wanted John to stay with her for a spell. Smiling at the child, he groaned and stood – holding out his hand for hers.

 

“Up!” Her demand was nothing new but John felt some hesitancy at the dull throb in his side. Sherlock, however, swept up the child with the smile he only ever offered his goddaughter. “How would you like me to fly you to your room? Daddy can carry Talbot and follow along behind.” He lifted the small giraffe from Rosie's hands and gave it to John; who chuckled at the offering. “There you are, Daddy. Young Rosie and I have a plane to catch!” So saying, he zoomed away with the child; Rosie squealing as they charged up the stairs. God, he would never tire of that sight. Who could have possibly imagined Sherlock Holmes as any sort of father figure? Very few years ago he'd have been horrified at the prospect.

 

Sherlock had already settled Rosie on John's bed by the time the other man reached the top of the staircase; feeling blown at the exertion. The steady look from his friend was enough to pull an eye roll and a short huff. “I'm fine. Save the evaluation for when I'm actively bleeding.” He offered a smile, though, to soften the blunt comment. “I'll just lie down for a mo.”

 

The disbelieving grunt was all he received in reply.

 

“I will be down again in half an hour. How does soup sound for dinner? I think we have a few cans of tomato.”

 

“Presuming you'll be awake for dinner. I shall make alternative plans on the off chance your estimation is off.”

 

John scowled. “Half an hour.”

 

Smirking, Sherlock took the stairs back down while John settled next to the already drowsing Rosie – leaving the duvet to the side. Wouldn't do to get too comfortable.

 

Two hours later, head pounding and a disconcerting tremor thrumming beneath his skin, John thumped his way down to the sitting room. The moment Sherlock lifted his head, from his spot next to the fireplace, John pointed a warning finger his way. “Not one word.”

 

Smiling, Sherlock steepled his fingers while John shuffled to his chair and dropped down to the cushion with a bit greater force than he'd intended when his legs somewhat gave out. Both hands rubbed at his face; noting the rough prickle of beard stubble. Rosie was appalled when he neglected to shave and would swat his cheeks and whinge about the prickly touch until he'd go for his razor.

 

He must have been in thought longer than he'd realized because, after finally dropping his hands, it was to see the worrisome gaze of his best friend. He smiled. “I'm alright. Just knackered. Takes a toll, being in hospital for such a long time.” It also didn't help his energy reserves to have been forced into taking deep breaths in spite of the pain to his ribs.

 

Sherlock lowered his hands to his thighs – rubbing them back and forth in a gesture that hadn't existed prior to his assault. Face turned to the right; he appeared consumed by the crackling flames.

 

“How about you? Throat still bothering you?”

 

It took a few moments for the question to make any headway – Sherlock blinking rapidly at the fireplace before turning back towards John. “It's fine.”

 

So, still troubling him, then. No longer raspy, however – the first two days he'd developed a rather severe laryngitis and had hardly managed a whisper.

 

Only half four but John hadn't eaten since breakfast, save a few biscuits, and already could feel the vacant pull of hunger twisting an acidic path through his intestines. “Think I'll go put the soup on. How does a grilled cheese butty sound?”

 

That, at least, sparked some interest in the proceedings. While Sherlock's disinterest in food had reached alarming levels in the past few months, there were still some meals with which John had been able to tempt him. Tomato soup and cheese sandwiches were a childhood favorite that were nigh impossible for the man to resist.

 

“I'll prepare the sandwiches” He offered; managing his feet with far greater speed than John. “You never use enough butter.”

 

Patting his stomach, John scowled at his friend's back. “Some of us don't have the build of a fifteen year old lacrosse player.” He muttered.

 

Rosie woke halfway through preparations so John turned the heat down on the soup and creaked his way upstairs to fetch her. He regretted not sending Sherlock when his daughter insisted on clinging his his neck on the way back down – soft blanket hanging from her fingers.

 

His middle was howling by the time he reached the sitting room and was loathe to return to his post at the stovetop. Sherlock, however, was not incapable in the kitchen – merely disinterested to cook on the regular. He simply rolled his eyes at John's rather pathetic glance and finished with dinner preparations.

 

Given the messy potential of the meal, they all moved to the table to eat; Rosie coming to life at the sight of the one food passion she shared with her godfather. John spooned it for her – cooling each bite with a steady blow. Sherlock had made her a half sized butty which she was permitted to tear apart like a jungle cat; stuffing bites between messy slurps of soup.

 

After dinner, Rosie cleaned up and content, John popped in one of her favorite cartoons and sat with her on the couch; rubbing one hand on her back while she faded to silent blinks.

 

By the time the credits ran, Rosie was sucking her thumb and well into dreamland. Without comment, Sherlock lifted her from John's side and tucked her against his shoulder; walking her up to bed while John watched with tilt to his brows. Dinner aside, this was beginning to edge into bizarre territory. Sherlock loved Rosie; no question. He would die for the child just assuredly as her own father would. But this sudden and steady attentiveness was beyond the scope of his usual engagement.

 

When Sherlock's steps took him back downstairs, John lifted his chin in a small nod.

 

“Were you thinking of taking up wet nursing next?”

 

Sherlock nearly sputtered. “Beg pardon?”

 

“I broke my leg earlier this year and had to ask Mrs. Hudson to help with Rosie so often that she practically took up residence in our flat. Who is this sudden nurturing individual? Mind, I'm not complaining if you're going through a parental phase.” For all of the humor in his words he felt a pressure wave of guilt when Sherlock ducked his head and started fiddling his fingers.

 

“It isn't... I'm not...” He glared, abruptly; gesturing a hand towards John. “Had you been less clumsy I wouldn't need to cater to your excessive needs.”

 

“Clumsy?” Riled, John sat straight though it tugged a hot revolt through his ribs. “Who was it that thought chasing bloody King Kong through a marshalling yard, in the rain, was a good idea?”

 

“I don't recall you complaining!”

 

“How would you know? You were thirty yards ahead of me most of the way!”

 

“So now I'm to blame for the length of your legs?”

 

“No more than I for the thickness of your skull!”

 

The stare down only lasted moments before John started to chuckle. Sherlock huffed; shaking his head but there was a smile tugging up the edge of his lips. Waving his friend over, John held out his hand. “Come on – pull me up.”

 

It was a painful enterprise, lifting up from the low couch, but he managed it with Sherlock's hand beneath his arm with the other around his waist. Once upright he moved on towards the kitchen; determined to be at least moderately useful by brewing some tea.

 

While the water boiled, Sherlock disappeared into his room for several minutes; reemerging in pajamas and his dark blue dressing robe. John lifted an eyebrow – receiving one back in return. Smirking, he dropped two bags into their mugs to soak – leaning against the counter and wrapping one arm around his ribs.

 

“So are we going to talk about this?”

 

“About what?” Sherlock dug out a package of ginger nuts and freed three from the sleeve – eating them one after the other.

 

Not in the mood to accommodate his flatmate's intentional nescience, John folded his arms and squinted towards the other man. “You. You may be the world's only consulting detective, the most brilliant man I've ever met, and also the most obstinate. But, Supernanny, you are not.”

 

He was somewhat amused at the complex emotions that flooded Sherlock's face – irritation warring with a rare bashful flush. In the end, though, he lost the stern rigidity of his shoulders and actually sat down at the table – brushing his fingertips at the crumbs caught in the wood. Preparing their tea, John set one mug in front of Sherlock before sitting down across from him and taking a deep sip.

 

Rather than drink, Sherlock slowly rotated the heavy porcelain mug – staring down at the creamy depths. “I had made an error in judgement. Doing so caused you no small injury.”

 

John sat back – blinking towards his friend. “You mean not calling Lestrade? Well, that's hardly the first time and you've never been contrite about it before; certainly not to the point of voluntary penance.”

 

Sherlock appeared to hunch even more; fingers tapping at the edge of his cup. “I... froze.” He glanced towards John, only for a moment, before lowering his gaze back to his mug. “Had I pressed the attack, when Dzundza had you on the ground... I...” He rubbed at his lips before clasping his hands. John could see the faint tremor. “I find myself... remembering. At the most inopportune of times. And I cannot escape those memories.”

 

John took another sip of tea – a bit surprised to find he'd drained his cup – and copied his friend by clasping his hands together.

 

“Do you remember how many times I found myself back in Afghanistan when we first started going out on cases together?” Sherlock didn't reply but he'd at least lifted his head. “At first, when it was really bad, it was nearly every week. I'd have nightmares most nights. During the day, depending upon the triggers, I'd have flashbacks that would take me right back into the worst of the fighting. In the years, since, it's gotten better but I still have days, now and then, where I can just about feel the sand in my boots, still.”

 

“But you never froze.”

 

John smirked. “How would you know? You're always thirty feet ahead of me.”

 

That got him a huff in return and Sherlock finally took a sip of his tea – making a face at the obviously, now cold, brew. He rested the mug back on the table but didn't release it from his loose hold.

 

“So... what now? Therapy?”

 

John shrugged. “You know that nobody will ever force you to go. Especially not after...” He winced. He'd been having his own issues in that area and, as of yet, had not found a suitable replacement.

 

But then a queer look came over Sherlock's face and he stood.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

He was out of sight for only moments – returning with a small card in his hand. “Greg gave me this – after the Bradstreet case.”

 

John took the proffered card; reading the text. “Would you be comfortable with that sort of setting?”

 

Sitting back down, Sherlock lifted one shoulder. “Perhaps... if I did not have to go alone...”

 

 

 

 

◦

 

 

_**One week later...** _

 

 

 

 

A gentle cough.

 

The scrape of rubber feet against old tile.

 

Stale coffee and fresh donuts warring for attention from the back of the room.

 

There was a long moment of silence after his introduction. It was a room accustomed to such silences. There was no rush to continue nor prodding to speak while thoughts were gathered together, and hung; like wet laundry on the line. Several of the group held styrofoam cups though few bothered to sip the bitter broth within. He kept his eyes down lest he grasp at their daily lives and bypass the whole point of his presence. Oh, God, how he wanted to do just that...

 

But...

 

His voice broke through the quiet; a rumble just within hearing range. “Do you know how it feels... to consider, every day, the manner with which to end one's life? There are, after all, a wealth of options. Cast yourself out a window; messy, that, but oh the spectacle.” He licked his lips. He could feel the rush of wind if he closed his eyes. “Be too slow crossing the street; even more messy; especially if one encounters a trolly. Still, it loses some appeal should the person behind the wheel be a bit too quick on the brake. Fit a noose around a rafter and go skydiving? Granted, you would do well to measure the length of the rope as one does not need to pile humiliation on top of attempted suicide.” Sherlock tapped his fingers against the heel of his crossed leg. Seated towards the back, therefore forcing most of his listeners to turn towards him as he spoke. Molly sat at his left; small hands gathered in her lap where they twisted against one another – the leather of her gloves making a small squeak. Not too cold that she'd require them for warmth. Hiding... He understood that, now. “Of course the more pedestrian options always remain... more than once I'd considered an excess of heroin.” His fingers were shaking and he clenched them to fists. “Every day I found a reason to avoid it...”

 

It was so silent in that room. Everyone hung on his words. He should have felt in his element; center of attention and all. Mycroft would have, no doubt, found it amusing that he couldn't meet a single gaze. No... He needed to be honest, now. That was the reason for this; honesty. Mycroft would not laugh at this. Not in light of what he'd done for his younger brother.

 

“I still awaken, most mornings, with the same dialogue in my head. 'What shall it be, today? Gun is too noisy; too much blood and brain matter. A blade? How is that less bloody? Ah, but have you considered pills? Can it wait until after breakfast? Mrs. Hudson just baked you a mince pie and she'd be shattered if you were too dead to enjoy it.' Who knew that mince pie could save lives? Bakeries could add that to their labeling.” His hands were still shaking so he copied Molly and gathered them in his lap; curled into the hem of his shirt to stop them from fussing about. “No matter how small, there is always something... something to stay the hand.”

 

He hadn't made a true attempt since the purchase of that needle. What he hadn't told John was how truly close he'd come. The tip had actually broken past the skin; the plunger depressed to admit a drop of lethal product, before he'd been staggered by the image of John coming across his body; possibly carrying Rosie on his hip. It had shaken him so much that he'd left a narrow scrape of bruised flesh behind when he'd torn the needle free. Now, though, was not the time for inner contemplation. His tongue travelled across his upper lip.

 

“Who would find my body, were I to die? Surely the most likely person would be my flatmate. And it isn't as though he wouldn't know his way around a corpse.” He considered, for a moment, how that may have sounded. “Army doctor. He's seen war.” He bent a thumb to press into the pad of one index finger – enough that the pressure of the nail sent up a tiny sting. His voice, when it finally leaked free, was soft around his memories. “But, I could not do that to him again. He held his wife while she died... and it nearly destroyed him. He watched... he watched a friend... fall to his death. And I...” He closed his eyes but too late to stop the slip of wet down his cheek, “I cannot erase the memory of his... despair. It is a weight in my chest that rises like molten rock when I consider the means to my destruction. And, so... every time... I consider living another day, instead.” He lifted his head, then; seeing all of the faces turned towards him. “My life is not my own, you see...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not yet to the end, though very close! I anticipate one more chapter unless something chooses to highjack this story. I have nothing but complete love and gratitude for all of the tremendously lovely comments and encouragement! I really can't believe I actually wrote this for having been my very first dalliance with these characters! As it is, I feely admit to being addicted and I hope to add many more stories in the future!!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a new friend.
> 
> Mycroft makes a decision.
> 
> The road is well traveled but they have not yet reached the end; and there are more pitfalls still ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was wrong. Clearly I'm incapable of estimations and this is not the final chapter after all - yay me!! So, I shall not attempt such foolishness again until i know absolutely for certain!! That said, I hope you enjoy!!

A week passed. Then two. Despite his early reticence, Sherlock attended every meeting, twice a week, without fail. He had found it, surprisingly, easier that Molly had continued to attend alongside him. He hadn't anticipated her desire to continue once he'd established a determined pattern. It wasn't until the third meeting, however, that she had volunteered to speak as well; standing from her chair with hands fidgeting together, and revealing aspects of her own past. They were details that Sherlock had heard before. And, perhaps, that had made it easier for her, as well. She had been stone-faced while describing the hazy memories of her assault. However, in speaking of the betrayal, she had wept. It had been distressing – but not in the manner with which he'd been accustomed. He'd felt a stilted desire to comfort without knowing the means in which to provide solace. By the time the next person had begun to speak, however, Molly had regained control and the moment had passed.

 

Afterwards, they had gone to lunch; as had become their habit after meetings. They spoke about his investigations and her autopsies. She would ask about John and Mrs. Hudson and he would make a face at the need for such pointless updates. She'd ask about Rosie, however, and he would smile – sharing such miracles as the new words she'd mastered or the experiment he'd taught her involving soap, yeast, and hydrogen peroxide. They never spoke of the meetings.

 

There was... something... between them. However, they were comfortable with one another and neither one of them were quite ready to label any aspect of their friendship.

 

Not long after apprehending Dzundza, both he and John had been 'cleared for duty', as it were; Sherlock finally reopening their flat to clients. What he'd imagined would be a slow trickle quickly became a flood. Well, no wonder, if they'd only had the Met to depend upon.

 

Apart from the occasional dreams _nightmares_ and less frequent flashbacks, Sherlock felt as though normalcy was finally reasserting control.

 

Save for one, overwhelming, frustration.

 

Even now, he could still not enter his mind palace without facing his terrors head on. He had hoped, perhaps too much, that his regular meetings would pave the way towards regaining control. John had suggested that he might want to consider more intensive therapy – one on one with someone disciplined in handling his specific trauma. By the nature of his Work and his history with MI6 he'd known it would be a short list even before reading through the names provided by his brother.

 

He spoke with four of the candidates before settling on a stolid Scottish woman in her mid-sixties named Geraldine “Gerry” Mayer _._ No nonsense, surprisingly dark humor, she reminded him of his grand-mère Vernet. Sentiment, perhaps, but he'd been drawn to her all the same.

 

At his first meeting she pulled no punches. It was, as far as Sherlock was concerned, the very reason he'd found her appealing. Hand holding had never sat well with him.

 

“You should know I havenae read your report regarding your experience. Too much can be tucked out of sight in black and white; so to speak.”

 

Sherlock had yet detail his assault in its entirety. John knew some pieces, as did Molly and his therapy group. Mycroft, he was certain, knew far more having spent an indeterminate amount of time with Gruner prior to plunging a blade through his gut (of course a blade – Sherlock had long known of the slender nylon dagger sewn into the inside seam of Mycroft's jacket. His last resort weapon would have been the obvious choice for assassination).

 

Not used to having his moods easily read, save for John and Molly, the latter an apparent expert at deducing the expressions of the expressionless, he'd blinked rapidly when Gerry had dissected his thoughts.

 

“Dinnae you fret; I'm not asking that you share that tale right now.” She tilted her broad face. “What I'd like to get to, today, is a measure of what you've been feeling. Oh, I know!” She chuckled when he wrinkled his nose. “I've known Mr. Mycroft for over five years, God bless. Him and his 'sentiment'.” She deepened her voice at the word – eyes gleaming at him. “So, no doubt, you're much the same. Well, I'm just an old country gal, Sherlock, and no time for dancing around the mud hole. Wade right in, I say.”

 

Lips bitten between his teeth, he slid his palms across his knees before clasping his hands tight in his lap. He opened his mouth before closing it again.

 

“I...”

 

His fingers hooked into the hem of his shirt before loosening to fidget on his thighs. “I feel... _anger_... So much anger... all of the time.” His glance crossed over books lining shelves – paintings, varied collected items... No clock; nor timepieces of any sort. And no poorly framed diplomas. Gerry had scoffed at such things. _“You want to know my credentials? I've got them in a drawer hereabouts. Don't put much stock in a piece of paper telling you more than an hour of good conversation could.”_ She studied him, now, as he rubbed the pads of his fingers together. When she didn't speak, he shrugged one shoulder and looked down to the rug (Oriental, wool, Qom Province...). “I find myself losing my temper; quite often of late, and for minor infractions. I grow impatient with my flatmate, John and... and three days ago I... I snapped at my goddaughter, Rosie.”

 

_With mobility strengthening week by week, Rosie's explorations had, of course, grown as well. Already John had been forced to nigh scale the bookshelves and fetch her back down to avert catastrophe. That morning, bright as a button, Rosie had escaped her cot and had made her way to the sitting room while both men had still been abed. It was the crash that had woken him – so startling and raw, followed by howls that he'd torn from his bed in just his pajama bottoms to find Rosie, sat on the kitchen floor, amidst the shattered remains of his Büchner flask. “Watson, I told you, you weren't to touch that!”_

 

_Of course, his shout has sent her hitching cries into piercing shrieks – tumbling her father from his bed, as well, given the hard thump and following curse as he'd scrambled towards the chaos. By the time John had limped into the kitchen, nursing a bruised toe, by the look of it, Sherlock had gingerly lifted Rosie free of the deadly shards. She'd cut herself across one pudgy hand; though not deep; small favors. Handing off the squalling child to her father's care, Sherlock had silently knelt to clean up the mess; catching most of the fragments into the largest broken bowl of the flask and only slicing three fingers in the process. He hadn't even complained as, after seeing to his daughter, John had insisted on bandaging his bleeding hands. They'd been shaking._

 

“I frightened her. I shouldn't have shouted...”

 

One leg across the other, Gerry rotated her raised foot while she considered him. “I don't want us to get too far away from the topic but I would like to explore this for a moment, if that's alright.” Whether it was, or not, she didn't give the time to reply as she immediately launched into her next question.

 

“Were you feeling angry when you shouted at Rosie?”

 

Sherlock's brow lowered across his eyes. “Why would I be angry at Rosie? She's just a baby. She didn't know any better. I should have put the flask away; I'd known she was fascinated by it; I should have anticipated she'd want a closer look. She's her father's daughter so of course you can't tell her anything and expect her to listen. I should have put it up. If anyone should be angry it's John. After all, I bloodied his daughter; it's a wonder he didn't demand his pound of flesh then and there.”

 

“Earlier you'd said that you'd been upset by how angry you've felt. In particular you'd mentioned snapping at Rosie within the context of that anger.”

 

Shrugging, Sherlock folded his arms and rotated his heels against the rug. “I wasn't angry at Rosie. I'm supposed to look after her and I failed my job. If anything I was angry...” he fiddled his fingers on his hem, “at myself...” One hand rubbed against his eyebrow. “How can I possibly call myself a guardian when I can't even protect an infant.” His voice sank into itself; going inward as the words trickled free. “I couldn't even protect...” Blinking rapidly he inhaled and sat up – putting his attention back on the woman across from him.

 

She didn't smile, though the creases around her eyes deepened. “Finish that sentence for me, Sherlock? Who couldn't you protect?”

 

He licked his lips; shrugging again, though the movement was weaker. “...myself... I couldn't... I couldn't protect myself...” His breathing began to speed and he pushed trembling fingers into his hair before half rising – dropping down, and then shifting his feet against the floor. Violence rose fast within him. Were he in his flat he'd have been tearing off the wallpaper. Confined to his therapist's office, he resorted to tearing at his hair.

 

“Sherlock, now, come on, lad, let go of those curls...” Her hands hovered close as Gerry sought to mitigate his self injury.

 

“It's not fair!” He shouted; swatting away her fingers. “I've tried to be better I've... I've tried to... tried to...” Overwhelmed, he choked into his fists and squeezed his eyes against the streaks of wet. He bit into the side of his hand – snuffling through clogged sinuses and trying to taste blood.

 

Gerry was crouched next to him; her hands resting on the arm of his chair. “You're right; it is'nae fair. And it is'nae right. But, Sherlock?” She waited – long, long seconds while he shuddered hard breaths; swallowed against the steady tears, and looked up. “My dear... it also is'nae your fault. And however many times you need to be told, I will tell you. And so will your friends. And your brother too. It's not your fault.”

 

Curling down to his lap, Sherlock finally let the sobs free; arms wrapping tight around his head.

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

 

“I'll say again, I'm nae certain what I can bring to this... whatever it is. I'm a psychiatrist, not a magician.”

 

Mycroft sighed, again, as he used the tip of his umbrella to depress the buzzer next to the door; knowing, full well, that his brother would have dismantled it for the dozenth time. No surprise when it was Mrs. Hudson who answered.

 

“Oh! John told me you'd be stopping by!” She held out her hand to Gerry. “Martha Hudson, I own this building. I'm the boys' landlady when they can behave themselves.”

 

“Quite.” Mycroft muttered while the two women exchanged greetings. “If you'll excuse me.”

 

“Never you mind about me, Mr. Holmes. I'll await the lot of you with Mrs. Hudson, if it's all the same.”

 

Mycroft didn't bother with reply as he ascended the staircase.

 

The usual detritus greeted him at the top of the stairs. At least the door wasn't locked, this time. The entry to the kitchen was ajar and through the opening he noted John with his daughter; the latter enjoying something from a small bowl.

 

The sound of running water rattled through the building's ancient pipes and the smell of lavender soap was potent enough to overcome the underlying scents of tea and a nappy soon in need of changing. “Has my brother been in the shower long?” Tempting to check his watch in spite of knowing the time.

 

John spooned another bit of what appeared to be pulverized banana into Rosie's mouth without glancing towards the door. “He should be done in about twenty minutes or so.”

 

They'd had no cases recently nor was Sherlock prone to washing midday. John, however, apparently found nothing strange about it therefore it had become habitual. Deducing the cause was an unnecessary step.

 

“There's tea in the kettle if you'd like.”

 

“Yes, thank you.” Resting the hook of his umbrella on the back of a kitchen chair, Mycroft helped himself to a cup. Rosie grinned at him from her nearby highchair and he managed to just hold back a shudder at the pasty concoction between her tiny teeth.

 

Finishing up his feeding and wiping clean the child, John lifted his daughter from her seat and set her on the floor where she immediately tottered towards a collection of soft toys.

 

“Mycroft, are you certain about all of this? I know that you and Sherlock... well you are astounding. Really you are.” He smiled; wiping down the highchair before pushing it into a corner clearly reserved for it. “The first time I saw how Sherlock's mind worked... it was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen. Well, it still is.”

 

“And yet you have reservations.”

 

John began to prepare his own tea while setting out a package of ginger nuts. “I do; of course I do.” Cup in hand he gestured towards the sitting room; taking his chair while Mycroft sat in Sherlock's usual seat. “After what he's experienced... He's made so much progress that...”

 

“You're worried this will trigger a relapse in his state of mind or, worse; a return of the suicidal urges that drove him to purchase a lethal quantity of heroin four months ago.” At John's nod, Mycroft tapped at his cup. “How can you be so certain that those urges ever left?”

 

The stricken expression that flooded John's face was only confirmation, really.

 

Mycroft sipped before resting the cup on one crossed knee. “As you've said, my brother's mind is unique. He possesses a singular genius and a level of mental control surpassed only by our sister. Whereas my own mental faculties are a strictly ordered space with the capabilities of instant recall, Sherlock's mind is a vast network of interlocking hallways filled with both memory as well as the stores of data he has deemed useful. However, where we differ is in our handling of sentiment. I have no use for it therefore it does not exist. For Sherlock, however... it becomes a series of hidden traps. Dark rooms; pitfalls; dungeons filled with horrors.” Mycroft rubbed one hand along his lips. “How do you think he'd managed to erase his own sister from his mind, doctor?” He faced John, unblinking. “It is because his control is such that, when sufficiently traumatized, he was able to, effectively, lobotomize himself. That which becomes too painful to face he will cut away as though it were a diseased limb.”

 

John breathed through his nose for several moments. The image, brought to life in such matter of fact tone was all the more horrifying by its mundane presentation. “So...” he cleared his throat of its dragging rasp; striving for that elusive composure that seemed to come so easily to anyone with the last name of Holmes. Appeared to... though he'd seen the destruction wrought when that composure snapped. “How do... how do we, uh... help him?”

 

Mycroft sat up; resting his tea cup on the table beside him. “Sherlock cannot have interruption during this process. You must understand, John, that this will, by no means, be simple nor quick.”

 

The look that John gave him, in reply, was one usually reserved for Sherlock when he spoke to his friend as though he were a particularly thick toadstool. Mycroft, while not abashed, was courteous enough to nod.

 

“This process will reopen wounds. There are doors, within his mind, which will have been sealed. In order to restore his control, those rooms will need to be opened. In doing so he will be forced to confront his most recent trauma. However... I fear there may be others...”

 

“Others... Mycroft, what others?”

 

Mycroft rested both hands on his knees. “John... how much has Sherlock told you about his time away?”

 

And there was no need to clarify further. John's throat tightened as those same, awful images, flooded his mind once more.

 

“He... ah... not much. Very little, in fact. What you had told me about Serbia was the most I had heard about – about any of it. And that, of course, had happened right before he'd returned home.” He clasped his hands on his thighs, for a moment, before slipping them between to hang free. “Fair to assume it was not just some lark, those two years...?”

 

Mycroft's flinch, at those words, was more than enough answer – though the man spoke his reply just the same. “It was not an experience with which one can return from intact. Had I the capacity to rewind time, I would had eradicated Moriarty the moment I learned of him.”

 

John nodded, tapping his fingers together. “Yeah. Me too.”

 

Mycroft stood, abruptly, at the sound of a latch – Sherlock's bathrobe wrapped form making brief appearance in a haze of steam before vanishing into his room – another latch sounding as he locked himself within.

 

Sitting, once more, Mycroft had yet to remove his eyes from the hallway. “You'll be coming along, I presume?”

 

John nodded. “I've already finished packing. Once Sherlock is ready we can go.”

 

'Ready', apparently, was ten minutes later when Sherlock left his room, dressed but hair still damp, and carrying a single bag.

 

“You'll want to check this, I suppose.” He glowered at his brother; hefting the bag up several inches.

 

Mycroft laughed in that airless quality of his. “Don't be absurd, little brother. I have people to handle such mediocre tasks.”

 

Leaving the brothers to bicker on their way back down the stairs, John gathered his and Rosie's weekend bags, the diaper bag, his kit, Rosie, and only then realized he hadn't put their coats on yet. “Oh, for Christ's sake... _**Sherlock**_!!”

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

They'd been on the road only half an hour but already Sherlock could feel the last shreds of his patience thinned to millimeters. Mycroft had a hanger full of helicopters at his disposal it was madness that he insisted upon such pedestrian travel! Were he behind the wheel, himself, it would be no bother. He enjoyed driving; insisted upon it on the rare occasions he and John required a personal vehicle. But this... this... mobile prison... He felt like luggage on a conveyor belt. Or, perhaps it was the company.

 

Mycroft sat beside him while John sat just behind with Rosie. Two other vehicles accompanied, ahead and behind, of the same outwardly casual appearance. It would be nigh impossible to tell that all three SUVs were constructed with bulletproof glass and reinforced panelling that could withstand all but the heaviest military grade armament. Rosie, blissfully, had made very little fuss once they'd begun moving. Content with the motion of the vehicle, she'd drifted off not ten minutes on. If only Mycroft were so easy to pacify. Blowhard at the best of times he was a terror of monologue with a literal captive audience with which to regale about the recent symphony he'd attended with the Président du Conseil des ministres during the latter's tour of something political and stuffy which was around the time Sherlock had begun sighing and shifting and bumping his heel against the floor. Mycroft, of course, was disinclined to indulge his discontent nor did John seem troubled by his ill temper. Rosie, much as he loathed to allow the comparison to root in his mind, had trained the doctor a bit too well in his handling of stroppy flatmates. Vexing the driver would be of only temporary entertainment and would ultimately result in a delay of travel adding all the more time to being trapped in a tiny metal box with his brother.

 

Bliss; interesting how the word could spring to existence at the sound of a squalling toddler. Thirty minutes, it would appear, was the maximum allotment for kipping in a car. The nigh toxic bloom that followed was such that all three cars were directed to the nearest way station for a nappy change and some leg stretching amongst the adults. Practically launching from the overly tight cage of metal and bulletproof glass, Sherlock made for the trees lining the small dog walking park strewn with food wrappers, paper cups, and other discarded rubbish. Amongst the beeches he pulled in several heaving breaths; mostly ignoring his fellow travelers as they made use of the facilities. Just past the trees, the ground sloped away abruptly; a sharp hillside scattered with thick underbrush and thin trees – several with branches befouled with tattered rubbish bags. Roughly 50 feet to the bottom a stagnant stream pushed through the collected morass of dead vegetation and trash that had followed the path down to its muddy banks. Even at height he could smell the combined rot of decay blending with the odors emerging from the closer buildings. The direction of the breeze doing him no favors, Sherlock pulled his coat tight and took the narrow footpath surrounding the park. Watchful for uncollected pet waste, he wandered until the air around him was marginally freshened. Until it no longer so sharply carried the atmosphere of stale blood. _“Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?”_

 

His fingers were flexing at his sides – fingers furling and stretching to the point he noticed the motion and stuffed them in his pockets; clenched tight. He was aware that Mycroft and John were watching him, from a distance, but made no movements towards returning to the cars. He just needed a few more minutes...

 

He resumed walking.

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

Unease hung around the doctor like a proverbial cloud. “Maybe I should...”

 

“Oh, I think a bit of a wander will do the lad some good.” Gerry patted John on the shoulder on her way past the two men; having ridden in the third car along with the other half of Mycroft's security team. “Just need to nip into the ladies; won't be a mo.”

 

Eyes only on his brother, Mycroft allowed a slight dip of the head in John's direction. “He needs a moment, only. He will be fine.”

 

Perhaps unconvinced, John, nonetheless, returned to the car to give his daughter something edible from a plastic container.

 

Mycroft had been noting the agitation since leaving Baker Street. Never one to easily tolerate extended travel, Sherlock's... restlessness... had only grown with every mile. Were it not for Rosamond's well timed intervention, Mycroft would have suggested a brief stop. Given Sherlock's rapid exit the stop had been none too soon.

 

Since childhood his brother had expended considerable effort in disguising his more extreme twitches and outbursts. Not for anything their parents had done; Mother and Father had always accepted the eccentricities of their children even if they didn't truly understand them. It was only after the horror with a lost little boy and a devastating fire that things had begun to change. Mother, in particular, had always been hesitant to have her children professionally evaluated. It had been uncle Rudy who had cajoled her into allowing one of his psychiatrists an hour of time with each child shortly after Eurus's fifth birthday. No surprise that they had all exceeded expectations. Afterwards, the psychiatrist had been in a fervor about Eurus; such that his evaluation of Mycroft, _“Genius”_ , and Sherlock, _“High functioning autistic but utterly brilliant; need to control those emotional responses, however”_ had hardly been discussed beyond his slap-dash results. To their eternal credit, Mother and Father had firmly dismissed the psychiatrist with the sort of polite insistence that Mycroft, himself, employed when forced into interactions with certain dictatorships.

 

After Victor's passing and the whole mess with Eurus the remaining family had relocated back to the property in Surrey. It had been hoped that the new surroundings would pull Sherlock back out of his own mind. For six months, he wouldn't speak other than to scream; their parents growing desperate to help him. Uncle Rudy had suggested sectioning him. Their parents wouldn't hear of it; to Mycroft's relief. He'd already lost one sibling and, though he and Eurus had been far from close, it had been a shattering blow. To lose Sherlock... would have broken his heart.

 

Approximately twenty minutes after his escape, Sherlock turned away from the copse of trees at the farthest edge of the park and started back. His carriage was stiff but his stride was no longer the half-stilted rush of before. Allowing for his distain of coddling, Mycroft ducked back into the car well before Sherlock reached them.

 

In the back, John was singing something to Rosamond in an off-key tenor. After a moment, Mycroft recognized the lyrics to the well known lullaby.

 

Sherlock stepped through the open side door as John was wrapping up his third verse.

 

“Are you attempting to undermine all of my months of musical education with that caterwauling? Watson is capable of identifying Schubert, Mozart, and Bach yet you would subject the child to Danny Boy?”

 

“Back!” Rosie shouted, squealing.

 

Less amused, John glared over the back of the seat. “That wasn't Danny Boy it was Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ral. My apologies that I couldn't avail myself of a six string orchestra!”

 

Sniffing, Sherlock chucked Rosie under the chin before turning face forward. “Apology accepted.”

 

The profane laden mutter in return was so low that Mycroft could scarcely hear the words. However, given Sherlock's smirk, it had been loud enough.

 

Thankfully, the rest of their journey passed without incident.

 

The wide gravel drive leading up to the house had recently been tended; probably by one of the young women living at the farm several miles down the road. The trio of sisters had become quite close to Sigur and Mellie since buying the old farmhouse two years previously. They had intentions to convert it into a bed and breakfast once the extensive renovations were finished. Since meeting the elder Homeses, they had begun offering to help around the house as needed – any tasks that were too strenuous for Sigur. As all of their money was tied up in their building fund, Mycroft had quietly set up a retirement fund on their behalf; to be disclosed when the eldest reached 66.

 

Mellie, of course, did not wait for the vehicles to park before she was striding across the raked drive to greet them.

 

“Myc! Oh, Sherlock, look at you!” She gave her youngest a lingering squeeze before shooing him towards the door. “Go on inside. We'll handle the luggage-”

 

“I'm not an invalid, I can carry my own blasted bag!”

 

Silence but for the crunch of gravel, Sherlock's eyes widened after his outburst. Swallowing, he pressed two fingers over his lips. “Mother I... My apologies...”

 

Mellie, however, but for a brief pause, only smiled. “It was a long drive. Go on. Take John and Rosie upstairs while we show Ms. Mayer to the guest cottage.” Sherlock complied, eyes downcast, as he led his flatmate inside. Meanwhile, after their luggage had been stacked next to the house, Mycroft sent the security team on to Guildford where they would remain until needed.

 

“You'd warned us that he was doing poorly but I had thought...”

 

Mycroft didn't hug his mother but he did rest his hand on her arm, briefly. Gerry, standing nearby, gave her a little smile. “There is still a great deal for him to process. And, while it may seem disheartening, it can take years to fully catch hold of everything he's experienced. I've only just met you but I can see that you love your boys a great deal. Sherlock will need that. He'll need to know that there is nothing he can do to change that; no matter what he says or what he does.”

 

Mellie finally smiled back. “Well, that will be the easy part. Now, won't it.” Wiping one eye, she gestured towards the large purple bag resting amongst the rest. “Unfortunate you had to send away your lackeys without availing yourself of their muscles. Now fetch Ms. Mayer's luggage and follow along, if you'd be so kind.”

 

“Call me Gerry. Ms. Mayer always sounds like a political office.”

 

Mellie chuckled as the two women started down the nearby path. “Well, dear, I insist everyone who stays at my house call me Mellie...”

 

Conscripted into manual labor, Mycroft bent to gather Gerry's bag; groaning at the weight as he heaved it to his shoulder. Unlike his brother, Mycroft's frustrations were mostly restrained internally – manifest only in the most dire need and triggered, primarily, by the machinations of his wayward sibling. He loathed to admit his mother was right, in this instance. Surely it would have been a small matter for the security detail to carry out such a simple task as dealing with their bags.

 

Ahead of him, the two women had obviously found much to natter about; their laughter adding to the dreary ambiance. While a paragon of original thought, on occasion, Mycroft indulged in the rare quote when it fit the situation. As it was, one sprang to mind, tainted with a liberal dose of sarcastic spin, as he hunched his shoulders and followed after his mother. To think this day had started off so well...

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of family time. All too soon, however, it's time to begin.

The light was a soft orange, passing through his eyelids and warm against his cheek. That was the first thing. Following a few minutes of hazy slumber, later, was the distant buzz of cicadas. It always took a day or so to acclimate to the relaxed pace of Surrey after the race of London and being Sherlock Holmes' flatmate. Still, he didn't mind the peace one bit. Granted there was the added exhaustion that came with being a single father...

 

Rosie...

 

John snapped up in his bed; shoving aside a quilt that, he had no doubt, was probably 150 years old and hand sewn by some great great great grandmother during the First Burma War. The cot Mellie always provided on his visits, Sherlock's infant bed, was empty. Curses rumbled in his throat as he looked for his trousers – digging them from beneath his bed without sparing the energy wondering how they'd ended up there.

 

Snatching a light jumper and pulling it on as he rushed down the narrow stairs he kept one hand firmly on the bannister in spite of his haste; not eager to crack his skull on Mellie's floors. The pungent hit of strong coffee was the next to strike his senses as he half scuttled into the kitchen – relief slamming into his back as he spotted his daughter, all beaming cheeks and giggling, from Mellie's hip where she stirred what appeared to be oatmeal.

 

“Good morning, John! This little tot was up with the sunbeams!” She jogged Rosie up and down, to the child's delighted squeals. “I'm an early riser myself so it was lovely to have a little visitor.”

 

John rubbed his haggard face with both hands. “I'm sorry. She's gotten rather mobile of late. Hard to keep her in her cot most nights and I've taken to hanging a bell on the knob back at the flat.”

 

Smiling, Mellie allowed John to lift Rosie from her arms while she tended to breakfast. “Sherlock was just the same. Couldn't keep him abed more than four hours most nights once he got his sea legs. Thought I was clever, once, and tacked a sheet over the top of his cot to keep him in? Wouldn't you know it, he was able to push the tacks back out and scaled the side like a little monkey. Would be out the door and halfway to the woods by the time we'd catch him. Myc was none too happy when we put them in the same room. He'd always wake up, of course. Still a light sleeper to this day.”

 

John wasn't certain if he should laugh or cringe – both emotions warring for prominence. He settled for weary amusement. “Well, honestly, I'd say nothing's changed. I'm surprised Sherlock sleeps at all on any given night – that mind never shuts down.”

 

Mellie didn't respond to that. Her face grew, briefly, sad before she moved the bubbling oatmeal from the burner and turned, next, to the thick strips of bacon stacked on a platter next to a massive skillet. John chose to leave it rather than delve into whatever hurt had blossomed in her heart.

 

As per custom, Mellie handled breakfast herself as she was always the first one up. Dinner, however, was often a joint affair; everyone capable expected to pitch in in some manner. It had struck John mute the first time he'd seen Mycroft, bedecked in a frilly apron, chopping veg.

 

“So...” Mellie tugged open the oven door and retrieved a large tray of what appeared to be cranberry scones, “talk to me about my son.” Leaving the scones to cool on the sideboard, she washed her hands and dried them on a tea towel before sitting down across the table from John.

 

Sherlock's intensity with a mother's fierce protectiveness stared at him from across the tablecloth. A babbling infant hardly enough of a shield, John found himself dry mouthed and in dire need of a morning cuppa before tackling any subjects associated with Sherlock's mental state.

 

“Uh... well, he, ah...” Rosie clapped her hands on his cheeks; pressing his lips into a pucker.

 

“Da! Want nana!”

 

“I, ah... better feed Rosie.” He took the escape with just a twinge of guilt; knowing very well that a delay was all it was. Every Holmes he'd ever known; once they had their teeth into something, they weren't prone to letting go.

 

He'd had the foresight to leave the small collection of Rosie's jarred food on the kitchen counter the previous evening. Fetching the mashed banana apricot concoction, his daughter's favorite, he screwed the cap and had to quickly move the jar back when Rosie plunged her chubby hand towards the opening; managing to smear a bit of it on her fingers; which she immediately stuck in her mouth. Finding a smaller spoon amongst the flatware, John returned to the table and sat; scooping small bites of breakfast which Rosie happily smacked.

 

Mellie hadn't moved from her chair. Reprieve over, then. She didn't speak but her lifted eyebrow was enough of a prompt.

 

Sighing as he scooped baby food, John considered what he was willing to share while struggling with the guilt of saying anything at all. Mellie, of course, showed a perception at least as sharp as Sherlock's in the way she could seemingly read his mind.

 

“I'm not asking that you break a confidence, John. But you know my son as well as anyone could. You know how difficult it is for him to share those things that hurt. I'm not asking you to tell me...” she blinked rapidly in a manner that was so like her son. “I'm not asking you to tell me what was... done to him. Mycroft told us enough, as it was. He also told us... he implied that Sherlock...” She breathed deeply. “Do I need to hide away my cutting knives?” There wasn't humor in the question and the fear she felt was apparent.

 

Finished with her breakfast, Rosie started to wiggle in his lap. John tightened his hold and jogged his leg up and down; though she was hardly amused and scowled as she pushed against his chest. “Down!” Giving in, he lowered her to the floor, where she scampered towards the first open doorway.

 

“Rosie...!”

 

“She'll be alright.” Mellie reassured him. “Siger and Myc are in the sitting room going over next week's trip to Andalusia.” Moments later John could hear Rosie's happy squeal and the deeper tones of Siger's voice as he greeted the child. The mere fact that only now could John detect the other two men meant they'd purposefully been speaking in lowered tones. Secrets – this whole family. Still, he could hardly blame them nor did it bother him. He himself was the holder of many secrets. Speaking of which...

 

John knocked his knuckles against the tabletop. “Sherlock is...” he pulled in a heavy breath, “he's... ah... he's struggling.” He spread his hand flat; his other arm tucked across his belly as he leaned over the table. “He hasn't spoken to me about it.” Not since the day he'd held a needle in his hand with the intention of using it. Not since later that evening when, breaking into exhausted tears, he'd apologized and promised to never try that again. “Mycroft suspects... well, not just Mycroft...”

 

“John, if my youngest is left to his own devices, will he kill himself?”

 

Even now, it was still jarring how alike Mellie was to Sherlock. Her question, so blunt in delivery, pushed him past his hesitance with all of the military force of James Sholto dressing down a roomful of fresh faced cadets.

 

“I don't know. I want to say he wouldn't; that he promised. But... he's also promised to never take drugs again and he hasn't always been able to keep that promise no matter how much he tries. When he was... attacked... it... it broke something... Not physical,” he assured, “well... not... permanently... God, I'm flubbing this.” He pushed his fingers through his hair; letting out a long breath, before resting them loose on the table.

 

Mellie reached forward and rubbed her hand across the back of his wrist. Her smile softened the fearful edges of her worry; allowing sadness to replace it. “That year, after poor little Victor died... after we lost Eurus... we agonized over what we could do for Sherlock. I'll be the first to admit I was less than helpful. Siger was not a good deal better though he would at least try to speak with the boy. Me... well I spent more time shut away in my room trying to pretend the world didn't exist. I was taking so many antidepressants that I would lose days on end. Though it destroys me to realize it we had left the greatest share of responsibility to Mycroft. And maybe it was easy; he was the only one Sherlock would respond to in the least; the only one who could coax Sherlock to eat at least something. In that year, I lost one child and nearly lost another in the aftermath.” John turned his hand in hers but didn't interrupt her memories. “I hadn't realized just how badly we'd failed our youngest until he began speaking once more... and it became, quickly, apparent that most of his memories from his early life were gone.” She rubbed a thumb beneath her eye. “Of course we spoke with child psychologists; there were attempts made at therapy. Sherlock would have none of it. Either he would ignore the therapist or would fly into a rage; screaming at the top of his lungs. I don't know if it was the right decision and I may never know but ultimately we chose to end the sessions rather than submit Sherlock to further trauma. We... removed Eurus... put away any pictures that remained, packed away her belongings... all trace of my little girl.” She used both hands on her cheeks, then; nodding in thanks when John fetched a tissue.

 

“Jesus, I'm so sorry. I guess I'd never considered how Sherlock would have managed hearing nothing of having had a sister.”

 

She nodded. “I suppose that we felt, at the time, we'd exhausted our options and, frankly, could not bear what memory of his loss might do to him. A year later Myc went off to Harrow. He'd been kept back a year for obvious reasons. By this point, the only ones who had ever known about Eurus were immediate family and the Trevors who, understandably, wanted nothing to do with us after the settlement.”

 

John did not ask about any of that. While the news of a settlement was previously unknown information, it was also none of his business.

 

“I've lost a child before, John.” No longer needing the tissue, Mellie's grey eyes, with their eerie familiarity, pinned him from across the table. “I survived it but there was a part of me, for a long time, that wished I hadn't. I thank God that I was able to overcome that darkness and finally start acting like a mother, once more, but I cannot deny the damage I caused. I do not think I could bear it, however, to lose another child. I will do whatever it takes to save him.”

 

In that moment, John realized just how skillfully he'd been talked round to this mad plan – without a single shot being fired, as it were. He couldn't stop himself from twitching a smile at Mellie. “I see Mycroft has been tattling on me.”

 

He was grateful that she smiled back – though it was a bit watery. “He cares about his brother. And, in his own way, he cares about you, as well. It matters, to him, that you know that this is in Sherlock's best interests.”

 

The last bit of resistance bled out of John. He could not, after all, fight the entire clan. Turning up both palms he finally allowed himself to relax from the stiffened posture he'd held for nearly a week. “Alright. As a doctor I know it's important to concede treatment to the specialists.”

 

Chuckling, Mellie stood, once again; gesturing at John to follow her. “Now that's settled, how about give me a hand with the rest of this? Sherlock will have a fit if breakfast isn't ready by the time he manages to pull himself out of bed.”

 

 

◦

 

 

They were just finishing up the bacon when Sherlock finally made an appearance; hair damp and mussed and yawning into his sleeve. Heels thumping down the staircase, he gave his mother a brief peck on the cheek; followed by a rather longer moment with head bowed and words spoken too softly to overhear. Mellie smiled at him, spoke something in return, and rested her hand against his cheek.

 

Leaving the two to have their moment in privacy, John wandered towards the sitting room to fetch his daughter. He found her, giggling in Siger's lap, and playing with something that flashed silver.

 

“What do you have there, Love?”

 

Holding out the object in a tight fist, Rosie grinned at her father. “Fesh!”

 

It was a bottle opener in the shape of an articulated fish. The silver scales were capped in mother of pearl and the segmented body flopped back and forth as Rosie waved her fist.

 

“Oh, that is lovely!” He cooed while Siger grinned and bounced the child on his knee. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen. At John's casual glance around the room, Siger stood and passed Rosie to her father when the little girl made a wild lunge.

 

“Myc has gone to fetch Ms. Mayer. They should be along shortly.”

 

From past experience, John knew they didn't tend to stand on ceremony and followed Siger to the kitchen. Platters of delicious food had been laid out on the table; cranberry scones, now drizzled in white chocolate and sprinkled with crushed pistachio, thick bacon, oatmeal with a selection of stir-in items such as raisins, brown sugar, and honey. Buttered toast was stacked high next to a bowl of scrambled eggs and Sherlock was already munching a slice with orange marmalade while Mellie set a plate of eggs and bacon before him; which he accepted with a rolled eye. John wrestled his wiggling daughter into a plastic high chair and made an attempt to retrieve the fish from her hands only for her to react with a warning squall. Rather than risk her temper he gave in and spread some egg on a small plate to cool; letting her feed herself with one chubby hand while she banged the fish on her tray.

 

John had just settled next to Sherlock, with his own loaded plate, when Mycroft reappeared with Gerry. Morning greetings were made and soon everyone was eating companionably.

 

After breakfast, Siger gave his wife a break from the kitchen and prepared tea; though Mycroft assisted his father by carrying the tray to the sideboard and filling mugs. Rosie had made the rounds after tiring of her eggs; fish still gripped in her hand while she went from one set of arms to the next; ending with Mellie. John had worried about her damaging the item before Mellie assured him that it had survived Sherlock, who, at two years, had once attempted flushing it down the toilet to see it “swim”. Sherlock, of course, refuted stating that, even as a child he wouldn't have been so foolish as to believe an inanimate object could spontaneously locomote. Rather, he'd wanted to study the play of refracted light, from the inlaid mother of pearl, on the interior of the bowl.

 

Hearing Mary's firm whisper from a deep place in his mind, because she never really left him; not completely, John insisted on clearing the breakfast plates and handling clean up. He was rewarded with Mellie's pat on his arm and a smile from Siger as he escorted his wife outside for their morning stroll through the garden; taking Rosie with for a scamper through the flowers. Mycroft retreated to the den; allegedly to take an important call (as though there were any other type when it came to Mycroft). Gerry, without pause, joined John in rinsing dishes and loading the washer; a gift from Siger the previous year. Of the three activities in play, Sherlock, rather reluctantly, remained with John and Gerry and even managed to put away some of the leftover food.

 

Content to let Gerry chatter, John smiled and maintained enough of his own responses to carry a decent conversation; most of it benign stuff such as anecdotes about Gerry's two nieces and her admiration for the guest cottage and its charming flower garden.

 

Almost the moment clean up was finished, Mycroft wandered back into the room. His eyebrow lifted towards his brother. “Sherlock.”

 

John could feel a nigh physical weight take over the previous brightness of the room as the entire reason for their visit came to the fore. Though he said nothing – only nodding towards Mycroft – Sherlock's fingers fiddled wildly at his sides as he followed the other man towards the door.

 

John and Gerry, a bit further back, followed as well. After some conversation, Sherlock had decided upon the garden behind the house for his sessions. Thankfully the weather had remained pleasant; mild with only a scarce breeze to stir the leaves of the large alder trees surrounding the wide lawn. There were several reasons for this location. Scent, firstly; fresh flowers and clean air that held no hint of wet stone or manure. Sound, of course, was crucial and with the bright chitter of birds at the feeder, John could feel the absolute calm of the countryside ease into his limbs.

 

Hanging back a moment, while Sherlock went on ahead; making for the shaded patch of the garden where there were several benches and a few chairs in a loose circle, Mycroft held up one hand towards his two companions.

 

“You may participate, Doctor, but you must remain silent. Gerry has been asked to observe in order to better understand the psychology of my brother's mind as I believe it will help during his sessions with her. You, however, will serve more as...” And here Mycroft actually grimaced – drawing a chuffing giggle from Gerry who'd obviously grasped his role before John could.

 

“I believe he means you're, essentially, Sherlock's emotional support animal.”

 

“Fucking Christ...” John rubbed his forehead while Gerry bent over her knees as laughter took her. John couldn't restrain his own laughter and found himself wiping his eyes. Mycroft sighed and folded his arms until they were quite finished; save for reddened cheeks and sparkling eyes.

 

Across the lawn, Sherlock glared at them with impatience. John desperately hoped he hadn't overheard any of that, Jesus.

 

The three of them, then, joined Sherlock; John settling next to him on one of the benches and glad to see that someone had seen fit to provide a few sturdy cushions. Both Mycroft and Gerry sat on chairs; Mycroft positioned across from his brother.

 

John immediately felt the urge to ask Sherlock if he was alright; the impulse clearly recognized by Mycroft who sent him a Look. Alright, yes, fine. Their way, then.

 

Sherlock had both hands rested on his knees. Mycroft held his fingers steepled beneath his chin, as though waiting to hear about the latest financial report. Whatever he may have expected, the extended silence hadn't been it.

 

Still, one could not sit in those surrounding long before the peace began to seep inside. John felt his limbs slowly giving over to the soft hum of life around him – the click of branches above, when the breeze rustled through the canopy – the low of some farmer's cattle on a distant hill – the murmur of bees working through brightly colored petals. Just warm enough that a light jacket sufficed, he closed his eyes and tilted back his chin to feel the sun on his face.

 

He may have dozed, he couldn't be certain. However, when he came back to awareness it was to hear Sherlock's voice – baritone nearly lost to soft speech. His eyes were no longer seeing the garden – turned inward in a manner John recognized. Across from him, Mycroft had his own eyes closed – though, now and then, he would say something – ask something – and Sherlock would reply.

 

Fascinated, John leaned forward a bit to catch the conversation.

 

At his side, Sherlock suddenly breathed in deeply.

 

“The door is locked...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know!! I'm sorry to leave it at a strange bit of a cliffhanger. However, it was needed as the next chapter takes on a significantly different tone as we finally get a peek into Sherlock's mind.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes his first foray into his mind palace. It isn't the familiar space he'd remembered from before and there are dangers lying in wait.

_He opened his eyes to fog. Reminiscent of the harbor after a summer squall but thicker; denser. It had been this way every time he'd visited. Ever since the cellar._

 

“ _What do you see?” His brother's voice was flat; lacking affect as voices tended to do in fog._

 

“ _Nothing.”_

 

_Mycroft was at his shoulder – his form more shadow than shape. It still managed to carry the weight of his rolling eyes. “Nothing as in you see nothing but the inside of your lids?”_

 

“ _Nothing as in nothing. Just fog...”_

 

“ _Therefore not nothing, little brother.” There was a shift of fabric against wood and, abruptly, Mycroft was there alongside him. “The fog is is a mental barrier. Try to see through it. You don't need the entire scope of your palace. Start with something simple. A door, perhaps.”_

 

_Sherlock turned, slowly, in place; hands outstretched and swallowed in the ashy blue condensation._

 

_His fingertips brushed something smooth and cold and he stopped; pressing his hand around the curved latch. He pulled. Frowning, he pulled again._

 

“ _The door is locked...”_

 

_Sherlock tugged at the heavy brass handle but to no avail. It wouldn't budge._

 

_Mycroft stood just at his shoulder – useless, of course. “Perhaps you require a key? Is there a lock of some sort?”_

 

_Scowling, Sherlock noted that, in fact, there was a single keyhole beneath the knob. Why hadn't he seen that before? He knelt on the flaking white wood of the threshold. Simple enough tumbler; he could breach it with his lock picking tools. He pressed one hand against his jacket – felt the slight weight beneath his palm. Delving into the inner pocket, he produced the small set of tools._

 

“ _Are you actually breaking and entering your own mind?” John's voice chuckled at his back. He couldn't see him but he could hear the shift of his feet on gravel._

 

“ _And how else would you suggest I gain entry?”_

 

“ _I already told you, brother. Have you located a key?” Sherlock made no attempt to correct Mycroft as to whom he'd been addressing. Flipping open the flap on his small tools, he slipped two slim metal rods free._

 

“ _Isn't that cheating? Breaking in?” John's voice had moved closer, then, and Sherlock had to remind himself that this was merely the mental construct of his friend._

 

_Sherlock fit the tools into the lock only to huff when he couldn't find the tumblers._

 

_Mycroft stepped up on his other side; heels crunching on the ground. “Check your pockets. You have the key; it's only a matter of bringing it forth.”_

 

_John smirked. “Certainly better than this hopeless fiddling.”_

 

“ _Focus on the key. Imagine its weight in your hand.”_

 

“ _Or you could try imagining a window,” John mused, “Easier to smash a pane than pick your way inside...”_

 

“ _Picture the shape of the notches; the metal it's made from...”_

 

“ _Maybe a cat flap?”_

 

_Sherlock grabbed at his curls; prepared to scream at them both to shut the fuck up..._

 

“ _Or... maybe just try knocking?”_

 

_He blinked. Molly stepped up to the door; considered the span of white wood. After a moment, she lifted her right hand and rapped four times._

 

_The lock clunked heavily. Then, with a soft creak, the door swung open._

 

_Inside was a span of varnished wood that vanished to black five feet past the threshold. John had grown silent by this point. At his back, Mycroft continued to drone on about various types of keys (“have you considered an electronic keypad with a number sequence?”). Sherlock, however, had already begun to tune out his presence as his feet carried him forward._

 

“ _Sherlock? Brother dear, you assured me you wouldn't go silent. Sherlock...”_

 

“ _Shut up! I'm inside.”_

 

“ _How did you... what do you see?” Mycroft was at his side again – mental avatar squinting into the murk as though he were actually present._

 

“ _Very little. Only the floor, for a bit, and then darkness.”_

 

_Stepping past him, Mycroft abruptly stopped; forcing Sherlock to halt his own steps to avoid a collision. “Is your vestibule still modeled after Grandmère's cottage outside of Bordeaux?”_

 

_Sherlock looked down at the floor – noting that it had shifted from polished dark wood to warm red cobblestone. “It would appear so.” He glanced to the right where a small, tinplate stove stood between two counters topped with venetian tile. A wooden bowl of onions sat on the left-side counter and the sharp smell stung his sinuses. Somewhere, still in the blackness, he could hear the crackling pop of a fireplace._

 

“ _Grandmère kept a torch and several candles in the secretary to the left of the door. You remember it? 18 th century; there's a burn mark near the middle where Uncle Rudy left one of his pipes and it tipped over; spilling the ash.”_

 

_The desk was there as he turned to look; burn mark and all. Sherlock slid open the middle drawer and found the torch, its mellow beam brightening the darkness when he flipped the switch. Shadows shrank away from the light – revealing patches of the room he'd adored from childhood. Whatever was struck by the light remained “active”; the room filling gradually with not only the visual, but scent and sound as well. The large clock tocked on the wall – brass pendulum rocking its slow pace back and forth. Butter sauce sizzled on the stovetop and scented the air with parsley, sage, and shallots. Somewhere, beyond the open windows, came the light trickle of Grandpère Vernet's stone fountain._

 

_All of this he detailed for Mycroft as he moved about the room – fixing the elements in place and, admittedly, enjoying the peace afforded. No, he did not often dwell in the cottage; not unless he required a mental escape. As it was, this was a safe place. A neutral space untainted by unpleasant memory._

 

_The relief at regaining this single corner triggered an eagerness for more. So much had been... wrong, lately. This though..._

 

“ _I'm going to try another door.”_

 

“ _Sherlock, we agreed to go slowly...”_

 

“ _It's one door, Mycroft.” There was only one other door, aside from the one he'd entered. It occupied a blank wall at a right angle from the fireplace. In the real cottage, that wall had held Grandmère's painting of lilacs. She'd been an accomplished artist and her oils had sold for thousands of pounds; enough to afford that very cottage. After her death, Uncle Rudy had transferred all of her works to his château in Nice._

 

_Sherlock placed his hand against the heavy oak. Ordinarily he'd be able to slide it aside. However, as with the previous barrier, it held firm in its tracks. Skipping the list of useless attempts, he went right to the method that had worked before and knocked four times. He smiled as the door slide aside._

 

_Leather._

 

_Horses._

 

_Blood._

 

_Sweat..._

 

_Sherlock staggered back from odors heaving from the wound torn open in the wall – the last mixing with another scent that sent him, gagging, to his feet._

 

“Sherlock, what...?” He jerked away from John's fingers as his friend reached for him – sun's warmth on his back and the scent of flowers overtaking the fetid rot that flooded his sinuses moments ago. Mycroft stood, now, as well but when he lifted his hand Sherlock glared.

 

“I'm fine!” He scrubbed fingers through his hair and noticed their tremble only when he lowered them to his sides. Unsteady, he sank back down; clutching his grip around the bench to keep his hands still. “I merely...” he breathed out and stared towards the rows of purple snapdragons, “I lost my focus.”

 

Perhaps John and even Mycroft may have bought that on face value but Sherlock had conveniently forgotten about Gerry.

 

“Lost focus; is that all?” She eyed the other two men. “A bit of privacy, if you don't mind. It's near tea time, I believe, and I'm thinking Sherlock and I could both use a cuppa.”

 

The affronted hesitation, on Mycroft's part, was nearly amusing enough to pull a smile. John, also slow to rise, finally did so when Gerry shooed the two of them with a few waves of her hands. “Go on, now. We can return to your spell-casting if, and when, I've determined Sherlock is up for more of this sorcery.”

 

The other two were well out of sight, around the edge of the house, before Sherlock leaned over his knees and allowed his head to hang. Rarely was he so utterly out of sorts after a trip through his memories but, then, rarely was it a place so disordered. He'd always known where the traps lie, before. Now, it appeared, they could be sprung at any moment. His hands weren't visibly shaking anymore but he could feel the micro-tremors though his muscles just the same.

 

“Can you tell me what you saw?” Right to the point, of course, but Sherlock had never been a fan of dithering and found such tactics tedious at best.

 

“Nothing. There wasn't...” He rubbed his palms together – still not lifting his attention from the firm study of his shoes resting in the grass. “It wasn't anything I saw. It was dark when I slid the door open. However there was... there was an odor. Rather it was a collection of powerful scents. It was... disconcerting.”

 

Gerry hummed – allowing him a moment before prompting. “Can you describe them?”

 

Sherlock inhaled; noting only spring blossoms and the wet smell of grass. He allowed a few more seconds of breathing those familiar and wholesome smells; _home, family, safe..._ before licking his lips.

 

“The place... where I had been taken. It smelled of damp stone and stale earth. Afterwards – after he had... after... I could smell blood... the polish on his shoes, manure from the stables and...” he gulped; breathing though his nose as nausea began to heat through belly, “and... semen.” He rubbed his knuckles hard against his lips but this was never a battle he was going to win. Whirling, placing some distance between himself and the bench, he vomited near the base of a thick evergreen.

 

Gerry kept her distance while he spit bile – only holding out a bottle of water towards him when he felt ready to return. He cleared his mouth before taking a few cautious swallows. “Thank you.”

 

“Like as not I needn't be reminding you the power scent can play with recall.”

 

Sherlock managed, he thought, to keep the distain from his features. Obviously not a roaring success at the eye roll he received in return. “Yes, I remember the recent object lesson.” Leaning over her knees, Gerry bent to pluck a snapdragon that had escaped the confines of the flowerbed. “I would like to suggest some counter-measures, though, before you return to those mental pathways.” She crossed one leg while Sherlock sipped water and did his best to behave himself.

 

“You've already made an attempt to control your environment; choosing the garden and the familiarity and comfort that it provides. However I think you'll agree that it isn't enough. Too... well, generic I suppose. What you need is something with a stronger mental attachment. Something that will trigger emotions of safety and love and don't even try to convince me there isn't such a thing. If need be I can try to suggest a few things but, I suspect, you may already know what they may be.”

 

Sherlock scrubbed the pads of his fingers over his lips. “Yes.”

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

Lunch was very simple; cold cuts and hard cheese along with a vegetable soup Mellie had put together prior to their arrival the day before. Only Sherlock, John, and Gerry were there to partake along with Mellie. Both Siger and Mycroft had gone into town; the latter to see to some sort of business that couldn't be handled via the unreliable internet at the family home. As to Siger, he had won a local auction for some sort of mysterious item he'd refused to divulge; grinning while keeping mum in spite of his wife's gentle queries. While Sherlock had suggested going along, Siger had dissuaded him and added that his short trip would likely entail a somewhat extended visit with the Five Old Men. Though, to John's leery glance, both Sherlock and Siger had laughed; not quite so clandestine as it sounded it was merely Siger's Pinochle group that met a few times a month for cards and gin.

 

After lunch, John had cuddled with Rosie a bit before taking her up to her cot for an afternoon kip. Gerry had retired to the guest house for a few hours; allowing the family a bit of privacy and, no doubt, to take advantage of the peaceful afternoon. Though he'd hardly touched the food, had given it a rather green look in fact, it had taken very little prodding for Mellie to convince her youngest that a lie down would serve him, as well, after their meal. Token rebuttal that he wasn't a child (affirmation that he was _her_ child; no matter his age) and Sherlock had soon dragged his feet up to his old room much to John's bemusement.

 

Mellie settled into a heavy armchair in the sitting room – opening a small laptop on the table at her side. “He hasn't slept in ages. He's been known to put up a far greater fuss.”

 

John could attest that fact himself; having spent the previous two weeks watching his friend grow more and more stroppy and ashen with every passing day to the point sedatives had been threatened. Mug of coffee in hand from the seemingly endless supply in the kitchen, he chose the afghan draped couch and rested his stockinged feet on the small round footstool.

 

“Well thank God he listens to you, at least.”

 

“Don't let his compliance fool you,” she replied; tapping a few keys, “he has to be in a rather sorry state to give in without so much as a snarl.”

 

John snorted. “Yeah; I have a bit of experience with that, actually.” He sipped at the rich coffee while Mellie typed. According to Sherlock, she'd been working on a biography of her great-grandmother Catherine Simone Vernet who had apparently been some sort of countess.

 

It was comfortable; sitting with Mellie while she tapped away. He felt himself recapturing some of the hazy peace of first awakening that morning. Sherlock may bemoan the sedentary drudgery of Surrey but rarely was he so calm when in London.

 

Slightly less than two hours later, Sherlock thumped back down the stairs with a heavy yawn and John felt a rush of affection at his tossed curls and stockinged feet. Mellie, too, smiled at her son and tilted her cheek for a sleepy kiss. “Can I fetch you something to eat? You're looking a bit peaky.”

 

Sherlock grimaced. “I'm fine.” His typical elegance dispensed with, he curled himself into his father's chair and tucked his heels beneath himself. However many times John saw him sit that way he could never quite understand how he managed to fold his long limbs into such a tight package.

 

“You happen to look in on Rosie before you came down?”

 

Sherlock pulled his mobile from his trousers and began scrolling. “Sleeping.”

 

Stretching, John stood and hefted his empty mug. “Yeah, I should go wake her. She won't sleep more than a tick tonight otherwise.” Leaving his mug in the kitchen sink he headed upstairs at a half jog.

 

Late afternoon sun made rainbows through the leaded glass window on the wall behind the old cot. Several circular rainbows were scattered across Rosie's cheek. The image it painted was unbelievably charming and he held off waking her just to admire his little girl.

 

“Oh Mary... your daughter is breathtaking...” His chin shook and he breathed back a sudden sob. It struck like that – at times. Weeks; months, even, of happiness and thinking he was past the worst only for it to rise again, no warning, and blindside him with grief as powerful and wrenching as those first horrible days.

 

Rosie's little fists jerked and she mouthed around empty air. Rubbing hard at his cheeks, John gasped and swallowed until the urge to give way to tears subsided enough where he wouldn't lose control.

 

The charm in his daughter's sleeping face waned quickly when he bent to gently ease her up from the cot. No matter how careful he may be, the lightest touch jolted her and she immediately set to wailing. Never had been good with being awoken she belted her displeasure while he coddled and rocked and carried her to the bed to change her nappy. One attempt to soothe her with Talbot ended with the tiny giraffe being flung to the rug. Refusing all attempts at comfort, Rosie's wails became a full tantrum by the time John had secured a fresh nappy and retrieved Talbot.

 

With his daughter deafening one ear on the way back to the first floor, John was unspeakably grateful when Mellie met him at the last stair and held her arms out for the squalling creature.

 

Decades of manhandling recalcitrant offspring had clearly done wonders as, no more than three minutes later, Rosie was shuddering through spent emotion and mouthing a chocolate biscuit.

 

A short time after that brief drama, the rest of the absent household returned. Sherlock set down his mobile as Siger and Mycroft entered the house – struggling with something between them.

 

“Here, let me help!” John rushed to relieve Siger's end of what proved to be a fairly heavy crate. Sherlock, on the other hand, merely looked on with interest as John and Mycroft wrestled the crate inside and set it on the floor; the latter glowering at his younger brother. Any recrimination, however, was set aside as Mellie entered the room.

 

“Alright then, are we to finally see what it is you've purchased or are you intending to toy with us all evening?” Spoken with a grin, however, and clear interest in whatever the crate contained. John could admit he was curious and even Sherlock appeared to be fascinated.

 

“Well, surely I would not want to leave you in suspense!” John recognized the delighted dramatics as Siger retrieved a pry bar and set to loosening the lid. Now, finally, Sherlock stepped in and assisted his father in wrenched up the cover. Quite a bit of packing material met their efforts – primarily straw as opposed to those wretched styrofoam pellets.

 

Caring little for the mess they made, the straw was deposited around their feet until, finally, Sherlock and Siger were able to lift the prize from the depths. Mellie was practically cooing and even Sherlock and Mycroft appeared impressed.

 

It was... well... a box. A wooden box; stained dark with a lattice of criss-crossing wood slats on top. The sides were covered in intricately carved trees, flowers, and birds. It was beautiful, surely, but...

 

“Not to sound half-witted but... what is it?”

 

Mellie chuckled and Siger smiled with the same sort of indulgence he tended to give towards his youngest child; though John wasn't entirely certain if that put him in good company.

 

“It's a jardinière.” At John's continued look of ignorance, Sherlock clarified.

 

“It's a planter for flower bulbs.” He ran his hand across the polished surface. “This one, in particular, is about two-hundred years old.”

 

Meaning not cheap. Mellie, too, ran her fingers along the beautiful carvings; Rosie sat on one hip – still groggy from her nap as well as her tantrum. “My mother had one just like this when I was a child. She grew lycaste orchids and would allow me to water them; though I had to be very careful. Rudy tried to help, once, but ignored Mummy's warnings and got a spine in his thumb for his trouble.”

 

John glanced at Sherlock in time to see him smirk – though it was gone by the time Mellie had lifted her head.

 

“This is a lovely gift! Thank you, darling!” John took back Rosie in order for Mellie to embrace her husband.

 

Leaving the couple to continue their study of the jardinière, the other three men, and Rosie, convened in the kitchen; the two brothers practically scurrying away from the excess of emotional display. Having had enough coffee, John chose, instead, a bottle of apple juice from the refrigerator. Half of it went into Rosie's lidded cup, which she eagerly sucked – parched from sleeping. Mycroft and Sherlock both declined anything and the three were soon sat around the table.

 

“How is Lady Smallwood? I understand you both recently attended the Crimea exhibit at The Queen's Gallery.”

 

Mycroft stared, only briefly, eyes soon squinting into a chilly glare. “And how did you know about it, Sherlock?

 

His brother smirked. “Weren't you the one to warn me about goldfish, brother dear?”

 

“Hardly! This is a professional affiliation; nothing more.”

 

John had long ago given up on either deciphering or asking for clarification when it came to conversations between the brothers. One part sniping, one part affection, and a good dose of one-upmanship defined their play of words. On the whole, trying to parse their interactions only resulted in mental exhaustion and migraines.

 

As it was, thankfully, Gerry soon arrived; a small box in hand, decorated like the Union Jack. Once opened it was revealed to be very fussy and very decadent chocolates. Sherlock's eyes lit up like a toddler on Christmas morning.

 

“Pink marc de champagne truffles.” Gerry grinned. “Your favorites, I believe.”

 

Siger and Mellie joined the group – Mellie offering to fix tea to have with the lovely treat but not before Sherlock had snatched a chocolate and popped it in his mouth – face going indecent as he took his time sampling the truffle.

 

John was surprised when, after some time chatting together, Mellie stood to prepare dinner. A watch check showed it was nearing 5pm. Rosie, by this point, had enjoyed several chocolates and was an utter mess of sticky fingers and chocolate smudged cheeks.

 

“You, my darling, are due for a bath.” John chuckled – pushing back his chair to carry Rosie upstairs. Sherlock stood, then, as well.

 

“I'm coming with you.” While John wrinkled his forehead he didn't dissuade his friend from joining along. Rarely did he need help with bathing – Rosie loved her bath and John could admit loving that time as well – watching his daughter giggle and splash and push her toys through the warm water.

 

As it was, Sherlock, once they entered the loo, merely leaned against the door jam and watched while John started the bath, peeled Rosie's chocolate stained clothes, and added bubbles before lifting his daughter into the fragrant suds. Rosie kicked her feet and squirmed while John wiped her face and pudgy hands – then resumed playing once the flannel moved to her back – warm water squeezed across her shoulders.

 

“Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

 

Wherever Sherlock had been, it clearly wasn't the loo, given his rapid blinks. “Sssorry... what?”

 

“You were going to help me with Rosie?” John held out another flannel and Sherlock took it – appearing back footed. Still, he knelt on the rug and proceeded to scrub absently at Rosie's toes – triggering a round of giggles and thrashing that soon had all three of them soaked. John quickly took back the flannel. “All right, I think bath time is over.”

 

Sherlock, still deep in thought, accepted a large towel without a word and patted, somewhat uselessly, at his damp shirt.

 

John bundled Rosie up from the bath and carried her to their shared room – glad to see Sherlock head to his own room to change. Once Rosie was dressed in her jim-jams and John had changed into a light jumper, he walked across the hall to Sherlock's room. The door was shut so he gave a light rap on the wood.

 

“Can I come in?”

 

The muffled reply sounded enough like a yes that John tried the knob – glad to find that it wasn't latched. Sherlock was at his window; looking down on the tall lilacs below – branches only just beginning to bud.

 

Sherlock began to speak; back still turned. “When we made the attempt, today, I experienced sensations that were... troubling. Scents, specifically. When I spoke with Gerry she suggested that I might try counter-measures to lessen the impact.”

 

John rocked back and forth on his heels. “That's why you'd wanted to have your sessions in the garden – because you'd anticipated that something like that might happen.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. Only I... had not anticipated that it would be so...” he glanced back at Rosie, “intense.” Stepping away from the window, he moved towards his bed – knees popping as he dropped down onto the patterned quilt that was nearly a twin to the one on John's bed.

 

Rather than hover in the doorway, John carried Rosie to the single chair that was next to a small desk. The child immediately reached for the glass jar of wickedly sharp pencils. “Oh no you don't.” John shoved the jar out of reach along with everything else that appeared capable of puncturing, gouging, or any other inventive form of maiming. Scowling, with her mother's pouting lips, Rosie prepared to launch into a furious howl. However, John pulled Talbot from a trouser pocket and the strop was waylaid as she latched onto the giraffe – mouthing one fluffy leg.

 

Toddler distracted, John turned, once more, to his friend. “So you said Gerry thought there was something we could do that might... help with, uh,” he rolled one hand in the air – articulating with gesture.

 

Sherlock seemed to understand him all the same. “She suggested I find a scent that is... comforting.” he wrinkled his nose with such distain that John nearly chuckled. “I wanted to ask...” he swallowed; fingers fiddling at his sides, “I was hoping I could... borrow something... of yours.”

 

The impact of that soft request wasn't lost on John. His throat felt tight and he bounced Rosie on one knee; trying to appear relaxed and composed. “Of course. What do you need?”

 

Sherlock licked his lips; eyes finally lifting, shyly, to meet his own. “Your jumper.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, thank you to everyone still hanging on after this extra long wait! This chapter was particularly brutal to put together! I am, as always, unbelievably grateful for the amazing comments, kudos, and encouragement! I hope, hope, hope I can get the next chapter up with less hair pulling!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gains some mental freedom. In spite of the bad weather, everyone has a decent afternoon. But there's an East wind blowing...

His second visit to his mind palace, a day later, began much as the first. The four of them settled together in the garden whilst Sherlock's parents minded after Rosie. The fog was still there, though not as dense as before. The first door was still locked but opened upon knocking. He didn't linger in the cottage – determined strides carrying him to the second door. This time, however, he clutched his talisman in hand. Just before knocking, he lifted John's folded jumper to his nose and inhaled the scent.

 

“So, are we going to do this or did you intend to just stand about with your face buried in my proverbial neck?”

 

A glance to the left saw John at his side – wearing the same jumper Sherlock held tightly against his chest. He grinned at his friend; earning a similar grin in return. Holding tight to the heavy knit, Sherlock knocked...

 

...And entered a white hallway lined with wooden doors.

 

He turned; finding the door he'd just passed through had melted away. It was dead silent and he spoke this observation aloud. Mycroft was at his side the moment his brother responded.

 

“Try one of the doors. Perhaps the one leading to the lab at St. Barts.”

 

Sherlock frowned, nose wrinkling. “How would you know that I have the lab in my mind palace?”

 

The chuckle from Mycroft, in return, was a grating thing. “Please. You would suggest that not even Rosamund could deduce that you'd keep a pathology lab in that head of yours?”

 

Sniffing, Sherlock moved down the hall to the indicated door. “Rosie is an exceptionally bright child. I have no doubts about what she could be capable of comprehending.”

 

Like the other doors, this one, too, was heavy oak and stained dark. Following the established practice, now, he knocked. Cool air tainted with the chemical scents of formaldehyde and alcohol was a comforting relief. With his brother on his right and John on his left, Sherlock stepped into the chilly space. All was as he had expected, and hoped, to find. A mental experiment he'd begun late the previous year still sat in a dish, awaiting his eye. A stack of files pertaining to a now, solved, investigation still rested on the corner of the desk where he'd set them. While part of him wanted to linger, a larger part would prefer not to do so with the presence of his brother hovering in the shadows.

 

“Shall we move on?”

 

He explored three more rooms, after that, all without incident. It was no surprise that Mycroft directed him to the most benign areas of his palace. Not eager to encounter any specters, Sherlock was content to allow himself to be thusly guided. All told it was going on half two when he finally blinked himself back into dwindling sunshine. Heavy clouds had begun to stack up to the east; the wind pushing ahead and shirring through the leaves above.

 

“Well, I don't know about you country folk but I'd as soon get indoors and seated about your grand fireplace rather than wait here for the rain to soak us all.”

 

Mycroft squinted towards the horizon as though the weather had personally affronted him. “Indeed. No doubt Mummy will insist we batten down the hatches.”

 

Sherlock gave little thought to his brother's griping – taking an added moment to breathe in the slight metallic tinge in the air that spoke of the coming rain. Already the atmosphere had begun to cool and he couldn't help the shiver that travelled through his shoulders.

 

“You alright?” John, rather than staring up at the clouds, had been watching him; little surprise there. Sherlock dug his fingers into the jumper still held tight against his chest.

 

“Fine. No doubt Mummy has tea prepared. We should go inside before she sends father out to collect us like a flock of wayward chickens.”

 

John chuckled at the analogy. “Not that I wouldn't mind a cup, actually, as well as a piece of the chocolate cake your dad brought back from town yesterday.”

 

“Hm.” Sherlock brightened at that; having picked over his breakfast he was now feeling the pinch of hunger coming alive with a fury.

 

As they all made for the house, the first scatter of raindrops fell. Sherlock shook his head as they entered the kitchen – scattering a fine mist of water and drawing a Look from his mother.

 

“Sorry...” He allowed the hand that went for a pat on his cheek; snatching two biscuits on the way to the table. Predictably, John fetched his tea and his mother set out the cake – the promise of pudding drawing the rest of the household.

 

With Rosie still napping it was only the adults around the table. Gerry immediately led off asking Mellie about the house and property – the older woman delighted to launch into its history – in the Holmes family for at least 4 centuries if not longer. As those stories often did, this history soon led to conversation about both the Holmes and Vernet families and Grandmère Vernet in particular, who had spent every summer at the homestead where she enjoyed painting her landscapes and flower studies. On occasion, she would also invite along a friend and fellow artist, Beatrix Potter. One of the few art pieces that Uncle Rudy hadn't managed to transfer to his chateau was an original piece Mrs. Potter had given to Grandmère; an intricate study of a bumblebee in flight; the very same painting that hung in the sitting room. Gerry, of course, immediately clapped her hands and rose to take a look – the rest of the group following in her wake.

 

“Oh, that is lovely! What an absolute treasure!”

 

Sherlock, though he had seen the painting thousands of times since childhood, was still drawn to the delicate colors that perfectly articulated the flight path of the insect. “It is remarkable. Notice how she captured details such as the fine veining in the wings.”

 

He could sense John's amused glance and turned towards his friend. “What?”

 

John grinned wider. “Beatrix Potter. Talking animals? I just didn't realize you were a fan.”

 

Pink cheeked, Sherlock resisted the rude gesture, given the company, and settled for a glare. There was little heat in it, however. John had, after all, allowed him the last slice of cake.

 

The wind picking up outside brought with it both an increase in rainfall as well as the thick clouds – casting the room into shadows. While his mother and Gerry busied themselves lighting candles rather than the interior lights (it's so much more cozy like this, don't you think?) Sherlock held off comment and carried dishes to the sink – rinsing them and going so far as to stack them in the washer; aware the entire time that John was looking on with a bemused smirk. When his mother's back was turned, he gave his friend the two fingered salute he'd resisted earlier – something Gerry saw though she did her best to hide her sharp cackle around a manufactured cough.

 

In short order the rest of the table was cleared and Mellie disappeared briefly into the other room, only to return a moment later with a small box in hand.

 

“Right then, that's done, how about a game of Sequence? We haven't played in ages and there's no better time than during a storm.” She then turned to stare hard at Mycroft. “No cheating from you, this time!”

 

Sherlock sniggered while his brother crossed his arms. “Kind of you to single me out. I seem to recall Sherlock was just as culpable.”

 

Groaning from the younger Holmes' bought no mercy from their mother and, soon enough, the adults were gathered around the table while a freshly awakened Rosie sat in her father's lap and chewed an errant card.

 

After reading through the rules for the benefit of both John and Gerry, neither one having played before, they engaged in a “mock” game for the purposes of giving the freshman players a chance to get the feel for the game. John, of course, sat alongside Sherlock – though he was careful to keep his moves to himself. One too many games of Cluedo had made the man wary of his friend and he went as far as to assure that no sharp objects were nearby with which to impale his board.

 

The game went on for over an hour – Sherlock finding himself surprised at his own contentment.

 

As the storm only continued to worsen outside, “a true gully washer!” per Gerry, Mellie suggested the other woman stay at the main house rather than risk an ankle on the, now, muddy walk back to the cottage.

 

“I've a spare robe I can loan you along with a set of pajamas that should fit if you don't mind rolling them at the ankle.”

 

Gerry chuckled. “As long as you don't mind me snoring in your sitting room at half seven!”

 

That settled, Mellie went off to gather a few other items for Gerry's use the following morning.

 

Mycroft had settled near the fireplace; laptop out on a folding table and tapping away with no, apparent, interest in anything happening around him.

 

Both John and the elder Holmes, as well as Gerry, had continued the conversation from earlier – the older man now delving into more recent history involving a herd of red deer that had decided to spend the winter in their back garden in the mid-80s and proceeded to strip every one of Mellie's prized cherry trees of their bark; at night keeping the family awake with their bugling. Members of the original herd still found their way back from time to time.

 

With everyone else occupied, Sherlock sat back in the stuffed chair near the window and steepled his fingers. Since the attempt, that morning, he'd been itching to return to his mind palace without the distraction of Mycroft's voice in his head. The sitting room melted away – taking with it the mild conversation and the steady tapping of Mycroft's fingers.

 

He was pleased to find that, this time, he need not bother with the cottage; stepping instantly into his hallway of doors. The air smelled of the familiar sterile odors he preferred; only a trace hint of the fireplace making it past his mental filters.

 

Methodically, he revisited the rooms he'd entered earlier that day; starting with the lab. Molly was there, of course, though she immediately crossed her arms. “Here without your entourage? Is that entirely wise? After all, you'd promised you'd go slowly and never alone.”

 

“I'm in my own mind. What, exactly do you believe could possibly happen to me?”

 

Her eyebrows raised but she didn't reply. As an avatar of his own consciousness, however, she really didn't need to.

 

Leaving behind that cool space, he proceeded on through the next three rooms; the sitting room at Baker Street, Lestrade's office at NSY, and Molly's flat respectively. Each space was as it had been on his previous visit. No rogue scents, no unexpected presence, no changes from what he'd expected to find. Giving Toby a brief rub to the ears, he finally exited Molly's flat and returned to his bright hallway.

 

Bolstered by his success, he considered his options. Certainly he could leave it as it was – call it a day and return only when he'd secured Mycroft's metaphorical hand-holding.

 

Sherlock opened a new door.

 

 

◦

 

 

 

The keys had fallen silent beneath his fingers; the last email sent minutes ago and, for the moment, he had some time for personal thoughts. He'd allotted four days before he'd be required to return to London. Clearly that wasn't going to be enough time, now. He'd known that there would need to be methodical steps towards unlocking the rooms of his brother's mind. Mycroft had hoped, however, to gain a significant foothold – to clear some working space, as it were, wherein Sherlock could have a place of safety to order himself before branching into the more volatile of his memories.

 

He thought, often, of Redbeard. Would this memory, one day, be recast as something benign and unexplained only to be broken open years, decades in the future? In many ways it was his fault Sherlock had forgotten Eurus and all that had followed. He could not bear to see him suffer that again.

 

But... was this truly the correct approach?

 

He couldn't say. This was, as the saying went, uncharted territory.

 

Tucked into a heavy chair near the fireplace, Sherlock hadn't stirred for more than half an hour. It was clear where his mind was; however, Mycroft had chosen not to intervene. It was impossible, for one, to prevent travel into one's own mind; he had enough difficulty wrestling his brother from disaster on the physical plane. Still, he could keep watch. It was, of course, what he did best.

 

Father and Mother had both retreated to her work room off the kitchen. Gerry was dozing on the couch and John had found a heavy tome of Holmes family history and had been absorbed for the better part of an hour.

 

His mobile giving a small chime, Mycroft sat up and scrolled his messages. Anthea had reported back about the minor incident in Sevastopol. Well, the City Governor would be pleased, at any rate. Sending off a short reply, he smirked, briefly, at the tone embedded in the response fired back.

 

A moment later he lifted his head at the sharp inhale from Sherlock's dark corner. Eyes blinking rapidly, Sherlock came back to himself and took in the room; obviously needing a second or two to recover his sense of place.

 

“Enjoy your little walkabout, brother dear?”

 

The glower back lost most of its strength; interrupted by a wide yawn. “You'll be pleased to know I unlocked a further five rooms.”

 

John glanced up from the thick book at the exchange – brows lowering. “Sherlock?”

 

“Pleased? Hardly.” Mycroft crossed his arms. “We had an accord, Sherlock. You assured me you would not attempt any mental journeys alone.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock sank further into his chair – dropping his heels on the ottoman before him. “I promised to let you assist me; nothing more. The doors open without your aid, now, brother. Thank you for that but if it's all the same I'd far rather keep my thoughts to myself.”

 

“Well that would be a change of pace, to be sure.” Mycroft retorted; earning a dark look from the corner.

 

Now lifting from his chair, the doctor joined their side of the room – family history tossed aside; how apt. Dropping into the couch, he tipped his head towards his friend.

 

“I cannot believe I'm going to say this but... Mycroft is right.” His hand came up as Sherlock stiffened. “I had my misgivings; your brother knows of them. Most of them. The point is...” he tapped his knuckles on his knee, “the point is that none of us have the right to tell you want to do.” He nodded; not speaking again until Sherlock had looked up from the withdrawn glare at the floor. “I admit ignorance about... all of this. What I know about mind palaces comes from late night googling and the bit I've managed to learn means only that what you are capable of is beyond anything I could ever hope to understand. Now, I may... rarely... agree with your brother but I also know that he is the only person, likely on this entire planet, who knows how your mind works. So I think it's worth considering that, for the time being, we try to stick with the plan, yeah?”

 

“Thank you, doctor, for that stirring endorsement.”

 

Sherlock didn't reply to that but he also didn't argue – choosing instead to sulk for the next several minutes. Finally, however, he tipped his head towards the other two.

 

“Fine. Your way. For now.”

 

Well it was probably the best they could hope for.

 

With time marching on towards evening it wasn't long before the elder Holmes' returned to suggest they begin dinner preparations.

 

 

◦

 

 

 

The rest of the evening was subdued – in no small part to the escalating storm outside that had begun to produce rather impressive lightening flashes and room shaking thunder at around 8pm. Rosie had been terrified and wailing, inconsolable, against her father's chest. John could admit, at points, feeling his own anxieties rising with the rare power beyond the windows; the memory of blood and war sitting just at the edge of his mind. London didn't often experience such displays of extreme weather so Rosie had never seen anything like this before. Sherlock, on the other hand, was utterly enthralled. He and Mellie spent much of the evening going from window to window; calculating the rain output and counting the time between thunder and lightening flash. They already had their following morning planned which would involve a wander through the surrounding woods to check on the various animal nests and dens. Siger, in particular, wanted to be assured that “his foxes” were hale and healthy after the storm finally passed them by.

 

All in all, the rain lasted until nearly two; Sherlock immediately wanting to fling on his coat to observe any damage. Mellie put the brakes on that thought with zero room for argument. “I have no intention of tromping around in that blackness; slipping on wet leaves and tripping over deadfalls. You can wait until morning and we'll go together after a decent breakfast.”

 

That hadn't sat well with Sherlock but he'd at least had the wisdom not to push. Or, more than likely, he was too exhausted to put up the battle. While he'd rested far more at his parents house than he ever managed in London, he was still far too drawn, most days.

 

With the night's entertainment at an end, so to speak, there was little left for anyone to do but see themselves off to bed.

 

Getting Rosie settled took a good twenty minutes longer than usual; her frazzled nerves leaving her sniffling and hiccuping around her dummy while John rocked her in the chair near her cot. Where Rosie had tossed and fussed even after settling beneath her blanket, John barely remembered taking off his trousers before dropping to his mattress; asleep like the dead within seconds of hitting his pillow.

 

 

 

 

John was half out of bed, dropping into a defensive crouch, before awareness had pinged in his brain. He blinked – remembering where he was and trying to recall what had awoken him. A cry... more like a whimper. Scrubbing his eyes, he felt around for his robe before shuffling to Rosie's cot. She'd felt a bit warm at bedtime and there was every likelihood she had another tooth coming in.

 

Leaning over her cot, he pulled the soft blanket back from her face. Sound asleep – though her cheeks were flushed. He laid the back of his fingers against her skin and felt the minor heat. “Ah, little love. Got an incisor trying to come through, do we?” He whispered. Rosie pinched her eyes but otherwise didn't stir. He'd had the foresight to place a few teething rings in the refrigerator before bed. For the moment, however, as long as Rosie remained asleep he'd leave her in peace.

 

He'd turned beck towards his bed when he heard the cry again – much clearer now that he was up. Only... it hadn't been Rosie. Frowning, now, he went quietly to the door and cracked it open a bit – peering out into the hall. He nearly startled, again, when he caught sight of the tall shape casting a shadow through the moonlight against the opposite wall. “Christ, Sherlock...” He breathed under his breath. There was no response to his exclamation and he tipped his head – stepping out behind his friend.

 

Sherlock was weaving and appeared to be muttering to himself – letting out the occasional whimper. And in that moment John realized what he was seeing. It was rare but there had been a few times, especially after his two year absence, where John had caught Sherlock sleepwalking. Scared the hell out of him, that first time. Well, truthfully, it was always a bit unnerving. Still, he had found, through trial and error, that the best method for handling a wandering Sherlock was patience and gentleness and to not try to force him awake. Sometimes he would go right back to bed. Other times he'd awaken, but be largely out of it, allowing John to guide him back to his room. If his dreams had seemed particularly bad, John would give him something for sleep. Tonight looked as though it would be one of those nights.

 

John's voice was pitched low and he kept some distance back as Sherlock continued his shaky steps. “Hey mate; out for a bit of a walk again?”

 

Not turning around, Sherlock's fingers flicked at his sides as he sucked in a series of heavy wet breaths. “S,not... s'not oh... okay...” He muttered in an odd monotone.

 

John risked another step forward – just a few feet behind his friend. “What's not okay, Sherlock?”

 

No reply, to that, though Sherlock's breathing increased in rate.

 

One more careful step forward. “Hey, then, what's not okay?”

 

“Stay away from me!” Whirling, suddenly, Sherlock snarled at him – though his dull eyes were clearly not seeing the hallway or John as he backed away from the threat he seemed convinced was at his back. However, it was in that moment that disaster struck.

 

Until then, John had been focused entirely on his friend. And, in the dark of the hall, there was little else that he could see. But, upon spinning round, Sherlock had revealed what lay immediately behind him. The end of the hall, and the steep narrow staircase leading down.

 

There was just no time. Even as John was starting forward, heart slamming, Sherlock's right heel slid into open air off the edge of the top stair.

 

“Jesus!” John lunged; fingers snatching for one flailing arm...

 

and missed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorrrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Poor Sherlock!! It actually hurt to do this, it really did!!!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery is a series of ups and downs; though mostly downs.
> 
> John learns a little more about Sherlock's past.

 

_There was just no time. Even as John was starting forward, heart slamming, Sherlock's right heel slid into open air off the edge of the top stair._

 

“ _Jesus!” John lunged; fingers snatching for one flailing arm..._

 

_and missed._

 

 

 

Sherlock didn't make a sound.

 

What followed, though, was far worse; his body collided with the hard stairs, horrific thuds of flesh against wood, all the way to the first floor. Frozen for less than a second, John tore after his friend; already in motion while Sherlock was still falling. He could feel the army doctor take over as Sherlock finally came to a terrible, silent, stop. While he had castigated his friend about it many times, there really was no place for sentiment as he crouched next to the sprawled body. Airway first – breathing fast but steady, thank God. Sounds through the house, then, as he moved on to Sherlock's obvious injuries. Gerry was the first to appear – shocked awake by the chaos and it showed in her mussy greying hair and twisting gown beneath a hastily donned robe. However, she immediately knelt across from them after a moment to take in the scene.

 

“How can I help?”

 

John grabbed her hand and pressed it against the oozing gash on Sherlock's scalp. “Pressure, here. Keep an eye on his breathing.”

 

His hands were moving down Sherlock's torso as the other three adults raced into the downstairs hall – crowding the small space. All of them veterans of battle, in one way or another – certainly well accustomed to various tragedies – there was no wailing or weeping. Rather, Mycroft immediately had mobile to ear and John had no doubt some sort of rescue was already on the way. Meanwhile, Mellie had vanished; returning a minute later with a quilt, which she laid close by until it was needed. At the same time, Siger had retrieved a rather impressive first aid kit and passed it to John, who pressed gauze into Gerry's hands before resuming his evaluation. Not a great deal of visible bleeding, aside from the gushing scalp wound, but that was being managed. No firmness of his lower belly but John wasn't hedging his bets, just yet. There was plenty of time for things to go even more pear shaped before medical backup was on scene. His touch moved across Sherlock's chest. Fractured ribs likely, given the crackle, and the right forearm was obviously broken and already bruising dramatically.

 

“Can we chance straightening him?” Gerry folded another strip of gauze and added it to the soaked through patch under her fingers. Sherlock's head was bent awkwardly against the bottom stair – his left arm pinched up next to his skull and shoulder protruding in a worrisome way. Of course it would be the shoulder that had been injured previously.

 

John shook his head. “We don't dare. If there's a spinal injury we could make it worse by trying to make him more comfortable. We need to wait until we can get a brace on.” Back to the head, then; he pushed up both eyelids to find blown pupils leaving only a narrow rim of blue-green iris surrounded by bloodshot sclera. They reacted to his penlight, at least, but further testing would need to wait until Sherlock was actually conscious. Dropping the small light back into the kit, John next felt along the back of Sherlock's skull; fingers digging through the wild curls until, with no surprise, he found the swollen lump where his head had impacted either a stair or the wall. Only minimal bleeding but that didn't rule out subdural hematoma.

 

“How soon before help gets here?” No need to address Mycroft directly as the Great Man had never wandered further than a few feet since ending his call.

 

“A helicopter is en route and should arrive within the next five minutes.” He may have sounded passive but a quick glance by John caught the blank fear in his eyes before the look shifted into the usual bland stare. Still, it was Mycroft who was the first to go to the door to watch the skies for any approaching craft.

 

On time, as though anything set in motion by Mycroft ever dared fall outside of schedule, the whirring concussion of helicopter blades rapidly increased to a nearly deafening pitch – bright lights making bizarre shadows on the walls like some sort of Spielberg film.

 

Two things happened in that moment. Upstairs, Rosie began shrieking at the top of her lungs. John turned; automatic father reaction to the sound of his terrified child, when the second thing happened. Sherlock regained consciousness. Before John had a chance to calm him he bucked his hips and thrashed. Of course, the second he began to move he howled; cringing against the floor in severe pain and, apparently, away from the circle of bodies crowding him.

 

“You're okay; hey, it's okay... can everyone back up a bit, please...?” Voice the same soothing tone throughout it took a moment for his request to register. After just seconds, though, the press of concerned forms gave space to the panting figure; leaving only John behind. Meanwhile, in the doorway, Mycroft had managed to hold back the charge of emergency personnel. However, John knew he was on borrowed time and had to get control of the situation quickly. The first responders, while excellent in medical care, were not as equipped to manage a panicked and resistant patient; especially one verging on a complete breakdown.

 

“Sherlock, can you look at me please?” Gentleness ran up against urgency as that wild gaze flitted about the room – not managing to land on a single thing and not once turning John's direction. A squint was followed by rapid blinks, then more squinting. Given the various ways vision was almost always impacted by head trauma John had no doubt Sherlock was struggling with focus on several levels. Unfortunately it also tended to bring along confusion and, in the case of a fellow battling PTSD from multiple traumas there was inevitably going to be...

 

“Stay away from me!” Words slurring but understandable, Sherlock tried to crab crawl away only for his right arm to collapse beneath him in a sickening fold. His face went bone white and his jaw unhinged; though little sound came out beyond a grating moan. And there just wasn't time for this.

 

But before John could make yet another attempt at control, Mycroft kneeled several feet from his brother's side. He spoke, then, in soft French; of which John only grasped the barest thread. _“Come now, my Dear, and let us help you. It will only be for a little while and they will make everything all better.”_

 

Still frozen, at least Sherlock hadn't made any moves to escape further. But then, after too many minutes for John's liking, pale eyes opened and landed somewhere in the vicinity of Mycroft's left knee. _“Promise...?”_

 

Still soft; still soothing, Mycroft nodded. _“I promise. We'll all go together. Even Mummy and Daddy.”_

 

“Mummy?” Sucking at his lip, Sherlock's eyes went wide as he tried to look about – a regretted move when it caused him pain; eyes squeezing shut and chest hitching through a shattered whine.

 

Keeping some distance, much as her eldest had done, Millie stepped within Sherlock's field of view and knelt so he wouldn't be forced to raise his head. Her words, however, were in English. “I'm right here, Sherlock. Would it be alright if these doctors helped you?”

 

John noted the care with which she addressed the emergency personnel. Not doctors, per say, but the title was one that Sherlock would trust. He didn't speak again but, after a moment, he nodded.

 

Mouthing a thank you that encompassed both Mellie and Mycroft, John stepped back to give the cluster of men and women room to stabilize Sherlock and transfer him to a basket stretcher. Siger helped his wife to rise and they both moved to stand alongside their eldest.

 

The entire time, Sherlock kept his eyes tightly closed; only letting out small groans and whimpers as his injuries were, necessarily, moved about. The brace around his neck triggered another round of panic but, by this time, the team efficiently caught his flailing limbs and were able to strap him down – though Sherlock shouted and pleaded by turns. It was awful.

 

To John's tremendous guilt, only then did he remember his daughter; left screaming alone for however long, now. Yet, when he turned towards the stairs, two things struck him. The first was silence. Not so much as a whimper. The second was the absence of Gerry. He found himself bouncing on his heels in anxiety. Torn between seeing to his daughter and looking after his best friend, it was Mellie who decided for him.

 

“Go. Siger and Myc will go along with you. Gerry and I will join you in the morning.” She placed a hand on his arm, then, and he could see the cracks in her calm. “Please... when you know anything...”

 

“I'll call; I promise.” He gave her a swift hug before bolting out the door after the other two men.

 

Sherlock, by this time, had been lifted into the helicopter bay and Mycroft was helping Siger to board as John joined them. While the other two found seats and pulled on headsets, John crouched alongside the stretcher with the three EMTs; passing along his previous evaluation while taking the role of wrangler to the still confused and panicked detective.

 

Confusion and agitation had only increased as the helicopter left the ground. John suspected, though, that it was the straps, a necessary evil pinning Sherlocks arms and legs, that were the primary source of the fear dominating his eyes. As it was they didn't dare offer sedation with his head injury; though they had at least given him a local near the fracture in his arm.

 

“Sherlock... hey, mate, can you hear me?”

 

Eyes tight again, Sherlock gave no indication; breath heaving through his chest in tight gasps. “I can't, I can't...” His words were pitched high and breathy; probably couldn't manage a deep inhale with his abused midsection.

 

“Listen, I know you're in pain but we're going to take care of you. It won't be much longer and you'll be feeling a whole lot better.”

 

Whether Sherlock understood him was unknown; he'd stopped speaking by that point and seemed to pull into himself; only shaking and panting short breaths. One of the medics had wrapped a loose emergency blanket around the detective. With little else that he could offer, at this point, John made himself as comfortable as he could on the floor, next to his friend, and placed one hand on the edge of the stretcher. He remained there for the rest of the flight – speaking soothing words and, at times, reaching out with careful fingers to monitor the flighty pulse.

 

By the time the helicopter touched down on the rooftop of a hospital (John hadn't been paying close enough attention to know which one and part of him suspected some sort of secret government base) Sherlock's desperate breaths had slowed somewhat. Of course, any progress, in that area, was lost the moment the side door was flung open and they whisked the stretcher, detective and all, out the door and began to race with him towards the hospital entrance.

 

“John! _**John**_!” Sherlock's thin, terrified, cries carried even above the still spinning rotors. Disentangling himself from the headset he'd donned, seemingly minutes earlier, John was on his feet and racing across the concrete rooftop before Mycroft and Siger had managed to pull themselves upright. He caught up to his friend just as they reached the first set of double doors.

 

The hand off to the medical staff was slightly more involved than the info dump he'd given in the helicopter. Primarily focused on the most urgent needs, then, he now detailed every injury along with everything he suspected.

 

“His breathing has grown more labored after the last eight minutes and there is now noticeable distention and firmness in his abdomen. Vision is compromised; he was unable to track the movement of my finger and he's been squinting. Along with dilated pupils and general confusion and paranoia I suspect a concussion. Right forearm is fractured but upon my last check he has unimpeded circulation to his hand. He's had a prior anterior dislocation to his left shoulder approximately eight months ago as well as previous incomplete fractures to the fourth and fifth ribs on the right side. The left shoulder was forced out of joint and I believe there was re-fracturing of the fourth and fifth ribs. Due to his position after his fall and the possibility of spinal injury I didn't reset the shoulder. He has a history of drug abuse so his tolerances are higher than average.”

 

The ER assistant, to whom he'd directed the rapidly delivered information, nodded his way while keeping her eyes on her patient. “Thank you, Doctor. Unless there's anything more, however, we need to get him to imaging.”

 

“Yeah, no, of course...” John took a moment longer before, reluctantly, pulling his hand back from where it had been resting on Sherlock's bicep. It was a sick coil of relief and fear that Sherlock didn't react to its absence.

 

There was just an overwhelming wrongness; being the one left to stand on this side of the doors. He shifted his feet, frowned, and looked down to see his bare toes. “Christ...” Running the heel of his thumb across his eyebrows, he slapped his way back to the waiting room. At least he'd managed to pull on his bloody robe...

 

Mycroft and Siger were little better dressed than himself, he noted, as he pushed into the room that, thank God, at least was carpeted. Mycroft, managing to look professional and in charge even in silk blue pajamas and slippers, was on his mobile again. From the few words John could hear he was speaking with Millie; probably updating her on their arrival. Siger sat nearby; eyes tired. John dropped down beside him. “He'll be alright,” he murmured; mostly by rote. A glance up at Siger's eyes, however, caught a look far more knowing than he was accustomed from most worried family. Not unexpected, really. He was just so tired.

 

Sighing, John let himself bend forward over his knees; pushing his hands against his eyes as though that would scrub away the exhaustion. Instead, he felt it fold over him like a heavy blanket.

 

When Siger shifted alongside him, John forced himself to straighten, somewhat, though he mostly slouched against the backrest.

 

“He's been through worse.” John wondered, though, at exactly how comforting it was to be reminded of Sherlock's regular dalliances with death. Siger, however, smiled.

 

“Started that business at quite a young age. He wasn't more than an hour old, the first time he had surgery. We didn't even know; at first. The moment he was born, far too early...” Siger swallowed, “the doctor was out the door with him before we'd had a chance to see him. He didn't even cry.”

 

John felt his weariness slip back at Siger's story. “How early?” He wondered, immediately after asking, if perhaps he was being too nosy. Siger, though, didn't seem to mind at all.

 

“Thirty-two weeks. And he was small, even at that; only two and a half pounds.” He held his hands just a little over a foot apart. “He was so fragile. We'd known, of course, that he was too early. We assumed he'd been taken away to be placed in an incubator. We had no way of knowing...” He blinked, rapidly, in a painfully familiar fashion. “My wife, of course; headstrong woman, insisted on seeing him. I thought a nurse would come to fetch us but Mellie believed we could find our own way. I insisted on the wheelchair, however.”

 

John grinned. Sherlock had been a right monster to force into a wheelchair after the shooting. Nevermind that he could hardly sit without going pale.

 

“Well, so off we went; down the hallways and following the signs to the neonatal unit.” Here he stopped once more; fingertips rubbing on his knee. It seemed more an effort, this time, to continue. “We arrived just as the doctor was pressing a scalpel into his chest. He was screaming; such a tiny sound...”

 

John winced. They wouldn't have used anesthesia. Not on an infant so small and delicate. “What was wrong with him?”

 

“Sherlock was born with a small hole in his right lung.” Mycroft spoke over his father's shoulder. He had approached without John being aware and had obviously been listening. “The incision was to place a tube to expel excess air. I am uncertain how much you may know of this particular complication...?”

 

John shook his head. “Not much. I only studied the basics of pediatric care after I was hired at the clinic.”

 

Mycroft nodded. “We were told that the defect is irreparable. In the best case scenario, the infant will grow and, over time, the hole will self repair as the child ages. However, in most cases... they do not survive.”

 

Rosie was immediately on his mind. That little love of his life... he couldn't fathom the horror of her birth coupled with a possibly life threatening complication. “God...”

 

The Great Man nodded. “Quite. As it was, he remained in an incubator for nearly a month. My parents visited him every day; sometimes allowing me to go along. I was fascinated by that tiny creature...” His eyes were lost; deeply inward and locked on the memory; no doubt the only reason he was being so open, now.

 

John didn't ask about Eurus, and whether she'd been allowed to visit; and neither Holmes man brought her up.

 

“One day, barely into the fourth week, a member of the cleaning staff accidentally dislodged the power cord operating the incubator. It is unclear how long the device, feeding oxygen into his lungs, was inoperable. It is believed, though, to have been nearly an hour. Possibly longer.” Mycroft looked up, then; something impossible to define caught in his expression. “However, when the frantic hospital staff pulled the hood away from the incubator, they found my brother alive... and breathing on his own. He hole in his lung had healed.”

 

John gaped; unable, at first, to respond. “That... that is...”

 

Siger, quiet for so long, finally spoke. “Unbelievable.” He smiled, then. “We Holmes men aren't given to religion. Mellie, of course, was raised Protestant. But... when I saw Sherlock taking each breath, unaided... I cannot see it as anything less than miraculous.”

 

John found himself without ability to comment. He and Harry hadn't been raised with any particular religious influence; though he remembered their mother had kept a dusty rosary in her jewelry box. The only time they heard the name of God spoken was when their father was cursing something; his team losing, when he was out of beer, when their mother was late with dinner, when his kids sent him into a rage...

 

Shaking himself from his spiraling thoughts, John looked back up; noting that Mycroft was no longer within sight.

 

“He's gone off to make another call.” Siger replied to John's clearly transparent expression. Mind reading was obviously a family trait.

 

They were both silent, after that. Hard to hold any sort of steady conversation while awaiting news on a loved one. As a doctor himself, John had, sometimes regretfully, a bit too much insight into the possible complications of any given injury.

 

It was approximately ten minutes later when Mycroft strolled back into view, three steaming paper cups in a carrier and followed by two of his security; James and Andrew. The two men had what appeared to be overnight bags. Andrew also carried a white paper bag with some delightful odors rising from within.

 

Taking in John's look, Mycroft offered one of his tiny smiles. “A change of clothing for each of us as well as some proper coffee.”

 

John wondered how accommodating he'd have been were his father not present. John accepted one of the overnight bags with due gratitude; making his way towards the nearest men's room down the far hallway.

 

By the time he emerged, dressed in new jeans, jumper, and, of course, socks and shoes, both Siger and Mycroft had already returned to their chosen corner of the waiting room. James and Andrew were a respectful distance away but clearly close enough to act if needed. On the low table, before the cluster of chairs, were the cups of coffee and a paper plate with sandwiches. “Oh... bless you.” John groaned as he helped himself to a croissant filled with ham and cheese; still warm.

 

And so they passed the time.

 

It was a little over two hours later when a doctor approached their group, introducing herself as Doctor

Chris Perth.

 

All three men stood; John shaking her hand. “How is he?”

 

Doctor Perth held her hand out towards the hall. “For now, he's resting. If you could follow me I can give you a more complete update with a bit of privacy.” She led them to a smaller room with comfortable couches and a large shaded window. Once they were all seated she folded her hands between her spread knees.

 

“So, as I'd mentioned before, Sherlock is resting, and under observation. We currently have him on morphine for pain but are aware of his history with substance abuse.”

 

John noted both Holmes men grow very still at her words; the reminder of Sherlock's drug use was always a sting.

 

“His fourth and fifth ribs were both fractured; for the second time, as I understand. The fourth was an incomplete fracture. The fifth, however, was a complete break; though, thankfully, there was no displacement. As to the source of the internal bleeding, we detected a laceration to the lower right lobe of his liver. But, at the moment, his bleeding appears to be minimal.”

 

“Will he need surgery?” Mycroft, to anyone not very well trained in “the reading of a Holmes” would have sounded disinterested; even cold. John, though, took note of how tightly he clenched his folded hands; enough that there was just the barest tremor.

 

Doctor Perth, showing a gentle intuition, replied with both honesty and kindness. “We can't know for certain, just yet. In many cases, the liver will heal on its own. That would be the best case scenario. Whenever possible, we prefer not to interfere with the body's natural healing process.” Shifting position, the doctor crossed an ankle over her knee; both hands lightly wrapped around her leg.

 

“We'll be monitoring Sherlock's bleeding and will perform regular checks every four hours to be certain the bleeding isn't worsening. Should the bleeding increase he will, more than likely, be taken to surgery to repair the injured organ.”

 

It was difficult to hear, even for John, knowing full well that this was standard procedure for this sort of injury. He could only imagine the fear it caused for the other two men.

 

“What about his other injuries? How bad was his concussion?” As far as distractions went, this probably wasn't the best he'd managed.

 

“He had some moderate bleeding from a laceration on the back of his scalp as well as the gash just above his right temple. We put in three stitches to close the wound on the back of his head. There is no indication of subdural hematoma but this, too, will be monitored over the next few days. The forehead injury was closed with butterfly bandages. His right arm has been casted. The break was clean with only minor dislocation.” Here, then, she paused and John could feel the hairs on his arms lift as a shiver worked through his limbs. Pauses, in every instance of a medical breakdown, were never good.

 

And so it proved when Doctor Perth took a breath and pushed up her heavy glasses before speaking. “The worst injury was, actually, to his left shoulder. We managed to set it back into the socket but with the sort of impact to the joint as well as the recent previous injury to that same shoulder, I'm concerned there could be further damage. Due to considerable inflammation of tissue, as well as the blood loss from his liver, we're going to wait until everything has stabilized a bit before any additional procedures. But I'm going to schedule him for an MRI as soon as his condition improves.”

 

At that point, she sat back; expression lifting into a smile. “Now, how would you like to a short visit? It will have to be brief; no longer than twenty minutes. He'll need rest more than anything right now.”

 

John was about to stand when he suddenly remembered his promise. Muffling a curse between his teeth, he dug for his mobile.

 

“There's no need, Doctor.” Mycroft spoke over his shoulder. Frowning, John turned with a question forming, only to see Mellie walk through the office door as though summoned on his thoughts. She saw his look and, while not smiling, there was a slight tweak in her eyes.

 

“Mycroft had his helicopter collect me about fifteen minutes ago.”

 

John glanced towards Mycroft to see him rolling his eyes before turning towards his mother. “It isn't _my_ helicopter.”

 

Mellie patted her boy's arm to forestall any further grousing; her face falling back into the tense lines it had bore upon entering. “Please, may we see my son, now?”

 

Doctor Perth led them to a double set of lifts and up to the 3rd level. Sherlock's room was the last one on the left. Keeping a few steps back to allow family to enter first, John didn't actually see his friend until Siger and Mellie sat in two of the available chairs; Mycroft choosing to stand at his father's shoulder.

 

Used to viewing any variety of injuries from minor to catastrophic, it was nonetheless, distinctly unnerving to see Sherlock so hurt.

 

The assorted cuts and scrapes, including the large gash on his scalp, had all been treated – some just with a plaster. The gash of his scalp had been closed with two butterfly bandages, as they'd been told, but is was still a mess of smeared iodine and bruising. Several more bruises had come to life in the last two hours. John was taken aback by the dark purple contusion all down Sherlock's right shin starting just below his knee and progressing all the way to his ankle. His right arm was elevated; forearm encased in a heavy cast that partially enclosed his fingers. His left shoulder, aside from some colorful swelling, didn't look too bad; though John was far too aware of the possible complications beneath the skin. A large ice pack had been placed over the joint to help with inflammation.

 

While the family spoke quietly, John didn't even try to resist the impulse to check the various leads and readouts; noting the blood type feeding into his friend's veins and the number next to his bp. At the moment he was stable. Best he could ask for, considering.

 

It was Mellie's soft voice, suddenly burrowing into his mind, that turned him from the cluster of monitors.

 

“That's it, my love. You're safe.”

 

John took a step towards the bed as Sherlock's eyes began to flutter.

 

Mellie, ignoring everything but the man before her, continued to croon and encourage her youngest; who fought waking just as much as he fought sleep.

 

While hoping for it, John was still surprised to see his friend rising to consciousness. Of course, with Sherlock's history, his tolerance was very high. Always a tricky balance to give him enough for pain but not too much to put him into a coma.

 

With Mellie's soft touch, it wasn't many minutes before Sherlock finally began to lift towards consciousness. His mother's fingers slipped though his messy curls as he squinted and blinked; eyes watery with sleep.

 

“There he is.”

 

Sherlock, with some struggle, managed to focus on his mother. A moment later, however, his face crumpled and he turned towards his pillow while Mellie stroked his curls.

 

Leaving her to tend him, John retreated to stand with Mycroft near the door. Exhaustion dragged at his limbs. He found himself yearning for the soft mattress and homemade quilt back in his borrowed room. With a sharper pang just following that, he wished for his daughter. He wanted, desperately, to hug her to his chest and not release her until she was old enough to enter university.

 

“John,” Mycroft's voice, pitched low, carried no farther than the two of them. “I spoke with Doctor Perth and she understands that Sherlock cannot be left alone during his recovery.”

 

And, really, John wasn't surprised. Sherlock had a tendency to react poorly to waking alone while in hospital. Far too many unpleasant associations. “Yes, of course. I can stay with him.”

 

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you. I'll see to it that you are supplied with whatever you require.”

 

John smirked. “For now? I'd be happy with a cot and blanket.”

 

Taking the comment at face value, Mycroft smiled in that not smiling way of his. “That has already been arranged. I will be back to relieve you this afternoon so that you may see to your daughter.”

 

John may have replied but honestly he couldn't be certain. He just knew that he needed shuteye nearly as much as Sherlock.

 

The visit wrapped up rather quickly, though, soon after this. Mellie and Siger both bent to kiss their son; Mellie letting her lips press a bit longer to his temple. John noted that Sherlock made no attempt to escape the caress. Rather, he appeared somewhat bereft when she finally straightened.

 

Leaving John behind with not much more than a nod, Mycroft escorted his parents back out of the room. Yawning, John shuffled to the chair Mellie had vacated; the cushion still holding a bit of warmth from where she had sat.

 

Sherlock had yet to drift off again; though his eyes gave away the battle for what it was.

 

“How are you feeling, then? Any pain?” He tipped his chin. “The truth, if you please.”

 

A languid blink. “Hurts to... breathe...” His face tightened as he continued to take shallow breaths. John knew too well that sort of pain. He still got a twinge, now and then, from his own injuries when Dzundza had thrown him round the train yard. He knew what Sherlock had to look forward to and it was not going to be easy. On any of them.

 

“Unfortunately you're topped out on pain meds but we can sit you up a bit. That should help take some of the pressure off.” Pressing a button for elevating the mattress, John raised it a few inches, after which he straightened the tubes of the nasal cannula and smoothed the blankets.

 

“Thank you... John. I feel all... tucked in...” Sherlock gasped; then coughed heavily. John braced a pillow against his chest and Sherlock whined after it finally eased; taking several sips of water from the cup in John's hand and not protesting the assistance. Waiting until he was assured the fit was over with John left to fetch another ice pack from one of the nurses. This one he placed against Sherlock's right side before tugging the blanket back into place.

 

“Try to get more sleep.”

 

Too sore to argue, Sherlock offered only an eye roll before letting them close. Ten minutes later he was out.

 

Yawning for, perhaps, the twentieth time, John knew he wouldn't be long to follow his friend into sleep. Half stumbling to the cot set up near the wall across from Sherlock's bed, he sat down to toe his shoes off. He considered not bothering to change from his trousers but knew he'd be uncomfortable if he left them on. Giving in, he stood again to fetch the overnight bag where he'd balled up his sleepwear – not too worse for wear all things considered.

 

Changing in the small bathroom, he felt in a fog once he'd dimmed most of the lights. With Sherlock's concussion he'd be even more stroppy than normal about the light levels.

 

And then it was his turn to sleep.

 

The last thing he'd clearly remember was sitting back on the edge of his cot.

 

After that point, however, he couldn't really give a toss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story about Sherlock's birth is based on the true story of my baby brother's birth. My mother, however, was alone when she walked in on the doctor performing emergency surgery. And, yes, his lung spontaneously healed despite the near impossibility of such an event.
> 
> _______
> 
> Also I deeply apologize at the length of time between updates. The next chapter will also be longer in coming as I have some large projects that urgently need to be completed by the end of the month. Thank you all, SO much for all of the kudos and reviews! That keeps the fire lit beneath me!


End file.
